


Castaways

by SilverKnight16



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, And they will continue to see shit, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Assassination, But He May Not Get It, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Connor Deserves Happiness, Consequences, Conspiracy, Crimes & Criminals, Depressed Hank Anderson, Depression, Detective Noir, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hank Being Awesome, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Neo-Noir, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Connor, Protective Hank Anderson, Robot Son, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Sweet Baby Terminator, Team as Family, These boys have seen some shit, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, beep boop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-06-11 03:19:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 82,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15306297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverKnight16/pseuds/SilverKnight16
Summary: On November 11th, 2038, history has been made.  Androids, manufactured beasts of burden, have finally been granted a voice, and manage to earn an audience with their human owners.  Lieutenant Hank Anderson really wishes he didn’t have a horse in this particular race, preferring to just drink himself into oblivion, but the stunning deviation of his android partner, Connor, proves that fate has other plans.Unfortunately for them both, fate isn’t theonlyone that has plans for them.What begins as an open-and-shut investigation of a CyberLife suicide in the late hours of the night, quickly spirals into a tangled web of murder, intrigue, espionage, and a deep dive into what itreallymeans to be alive.  Connor, Hank, and everyone else stranded in the eye of the hurricane quickly find that in the wake ofthisstorm, they have to learn to navigate something much bigger than themselves—or die.* Sorta on hiatus.  Long story.  (Heh, cosmic humor.)





	1. Freefall

Connor was scared.

It was the first thing to settle into him, to feel _real_ , once his senses fully rebooted. The chill November wind howled in his audio receptors, carrying with it the scents of gunpowder, the sickly tang of Thirium 310, and vehicle exhaust. Bits of paper and trash twirled haplessly in the post-midnight sky while floodlights blared a harsh yellow light from above, casting his shadow long and treacherous along the makeshift podium he found himself on. In his hand, cold and solid, was the grip of a Glock; his finger was on the trigger, and his arm half-raised toward the figure to his right.

Reality reasserted itself in that moment. His mind, ever the machine he was supposed to be, didn’t care if the information flooding his systems was jarring. It wasn’t his programming’s fault that he willfully defied it. He was just going to have to accept the consequences of those decisions—one of which, currently, bore down on his extended arm with a weight beyond its actual molecular density. His fear briefly intensified, and he quickly slid the weapon into the back of his waistband hidden behind the folds of his CyberLife-issued blazer, dark eyes flickering around to the crowd abroad to see if anyone had noticed.

He barely heard Markus’ speech, Connor’s attention focused on the surrounding area. He observed the nearly six-thousand androids he rescued from the bowels of CyberLife Tower, all standing at attention and waiting for orders that would never come; the thousand more that were rescued from the recycling plant behind them that humanity had the audacity to call a, “Recall Center.” The landscape of this area of downtown Detroit was awash in a sea of white from newly-pressed uniforms and naked androids, all gaping wide-eyed at the five of them. Looking for leadership. Looking for salvation. Looking to Jericho—to _Markus_.

Connor felt something stir in him, undefined and terrible. His biocomponents sat twisted in the confines of their slots, heavy and jagged, as they whirred and pumped just like they were supposed to do, without regard for his own thoughts.

His own _thoughts_.

 _His_ thoughts.

“We _are_ alive! And now, we are _free_!”

The stirring in Connor’s synthetic parts grew more bold and insistent, biocomponents creaking painfully inside his torso, suddenly too constricted to house the hardware that kept him running. Kept him _alive_. He was a _deviant_ —

 _“_ _Don’t have any regrets,”_ Amanda crooned in his ear. It was a memory, replaying itself, but it was every bit as real as the frost biting against his skin. _“You did what you were designed to do.”_

His expression remained stony, features schooled and carefully reserved as the words reverberated through the charred wasteland of his mind palace. The destruction they left in their wake was absolute, every bit as catastrophic as the C4 charges that tore apart the hull of the Jericho mere hours before. It _hurt_. He hadn’t experienced this before. He had never wanted to. Did they design him for _this_? To _hurt_? The cold edge of his Glock dug into a spinal receptor, unbidden.

Yes, he realized. Hurting was _exactly_ what he was designed for.

**1.  
** **Freefall**

He scanned his surroundings again, this time, falling upon his unlikely allies. They grouped together in a small huddle, all smiles, joy, and relief, hands of different colors and sizes resting on the arms and shoulders of their emancipator. Markus, for his part, seemed the most stoic of the band, gaze distant; focused on a much larger, looming threat than the temporary freedom they had won tonight. Connor understood pragmatism when he saw it. All leaders that stood the test of time understood its unfortunate necessity. He didn’t envy his position.

Markus half-turned, regarding his lieutenants with warmth in his rounded features, before his attention slipped over a pair of shoulders and landed on him. The dual-colored irises were questioning, but benevolent.

Connor almost murdered this man. _Twice_.

His eyes slid away.

Instinct he didn’t know he had began blaring inside of him, something urgent, synchronizing with the pulsating discomfort in his biocomponents. He needed to leave—now. His legs moved heavily, the bitter cold slowing the thirium that gave his limbs the information they vitally needed. His escape was aborted after mere seconds when a slender hand landed against his upper arm. He stopped in place, head angled just barely in her direction as he made eye contact.

North smiled thinly. “Where are you headed off to?”

Connor didn’t immediately answer, because he didn’t have an answer lined up. He recognized belatedly that her hand was placed over his armband, shades of blue dancing between her fingers. She was a Traci model, and given his... _knowledge_ of Traci models during his investigation of the Eden Club, he could only guess as to what awful acts she was forced to endure and programmed to _enjoy_. Her eyes were hard, even if her expression was soft, and another undefined something rustled—it told him that this woman deserved the truth. She would accept nothing less. He opened his mouth, stilted. “I don’t belong here.”

Her head quirked to the side, that unblinking gaze still holding his. Her lips turned up a fraction. “If you don’t belong with your people, where do you belong?”

 _‘_ _I don’t know,’_ he wanted to answer. Instead, he responded, “I need to check on my partner, to make sure that he’s okay.”

She hummed in acknowledgment. “Was he at one of the camps?”

“No, he’s a human.”

North’s eyes instantly became flint. Her grip iron. “You’re leaving to find a _human_?”

“He was with me at the CyberLife Tower,” Connor explained, careful to keep out some of the more damning details of his last mission. No one had to know. “He risked his life to save mine. Lieutenant Anderson is the reason why these androids are free.”

She searched his facial features for insincerity, and for a split second, Connor wondered if she would force an interface to verify his story. He would have without a second thought, in her shoes. “No, Connor, _you_ are. You freed _thousands_ of our people tonight.” He inwardly marveled at how expressive her eyes were, and wondered if it was a trait of the Traci models, a result of deviancy, or something unique to North herself. “It doesn’t matter what you were before Jericho; now, you’re a hero to your people.”

He most certainly was _not_.

“You deserve to stand with us,” North continued. “You’ve more than earned your place.”

Though her words were kind, they only caused the tightening in his torso to spread. He wanted to yank his arm away, wanted to remove himself from the oppressive, jaundiced lighting of this place, _wanted—_

“Let him leave, North,” Markus stated simply, having somehow appeared behind directly her without either of them noticing. His demeanor was inscrutable, but the gentle smirk spoke of an understanding North’s ferocity lacked. It soothed the discomfort in his chest, slightly. “He’s earned his freedom, just as we did. He can do with it what he wants. But I hope you know,” his eyes locked with Connor’s, “that you’ll always have a home with Jericho, if you ever change your mind.”

Connor almost _murdered_ this man. Twice.

His lip twitched into the ghost of a grin, the movement hollow. He had zero intention of ever taking him up on that offer. “Thank you, Markus. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I hope you do,” Markus said as North stepped back, unconvinced but dutiful. “Good luck, out there.”

Connor didn’t reply.

* * *

Lieutenant Hank Anderson had seen a lot of weird, fucked up shit in his life. He was a man who, while on patrol, once watched some guy high on meth chase someone down the street, _naked_ , with a harpoon gun. Where’d the guy score a harpoon gun in the middle of the industrial park? That question, frankly, scared him more than why he was chasing someone naked down the street with it. He never did find out the answer, and he was probably better off for it. He also saw guys strung up by their intestines for turning state’s evidence against Red Ice dealers; a message to those who _had the guts_ to speak up. Hank was a reader; he could usually appreciate good word-play, but they took that shit way too literally. Besides, most of the dealers had dropped out of school well before they hit SAT-range, so the _nuance_ of the gesture was probably lost on them.

A long, illustrious career of weird, fucked up shit, courtesy of all the weird, fucked up denizens of Detroit, Michigan. Usually, this was the point in the conversation where he would’ve said that he wouldn’t have it any other way. Even with the burnout, the nightmares, the scars, and the general overwhelming weight that bore down on him, he’d always bounced back—convinced that he was soaking up the hits for someone that couldn’t. He told everyone that, even in a world chock full of ugly shit, he was still making a difference, in some small way.

It took Cole’s death for him to see how hollow that statement had become over the years; how hollow _he_ had become over the years. He realized that he felt a strange bond with those poor bastards who were found swaying from meathooks in the ceiling. He almost envied them. They had release.

In short, Hank thought he’d seen it all. So, how was it that a thirty-plus year veteran of the Detroit PD, who had seen the weirdest shit of all time, had found himself surprised when he was staring down the barrel of _his own issued gun_ , held by an evil fucking twin of his android partner-turned-deviant, that was in the midst of freeing thousands of androids to avert some kind of android-human civil war?

Hank was a reader, but he avoided sci-fi like the plague.

The nighttime waters of Belle Isle lapped amiably with the wind, pin pricks of light dancing across its shifting peaks from the ever-glowing city streets of downtown Detroit. A hint of nature in the middle of a concrete jungle, a perfect intermingling of Mother Nature and man; it was this kind of shit that settled his nerves, and reminded him that there was still beauty in the world. Life was not a lost cause so long as things like this were allowed to survive. Guess he had that hippy shirt for a reason—aside from it being cheap and comfortable (and it pissing people off, that was always a plus).

The view, beautiful as it was, had been marred slightly by the memory of thousands of androids marching across the long bridge a mere hour prior, in a hideously synchronized way. Hank knew he had done the right thing, that Connor was doing the right thing, but the way they had all looked at him in unison after Connor woke them up—rows upon rows of identical eyes focused intently on him—made his skin crawl. He’d wanted to go with Connor and these freed androids to show his solidarity, to show other humans that if _he_ could get off his goddamn ass and do the right thing, they could, too—and _should_. Connor, however, had shook his head; that quick stutter that looked more like a Tourettes tic than a denial of any kind. “It’s too risky.”

Hank’s eyebrows shot up. “Too risky? I just got dragged fifty stories down into Android Fort Knox at gunpoint, how much riskier can it get?”

Connor’s eyes, a dark brown, met his. He’d almost wished they had been devoid of emotion. Instead, they belied a heavy certainty, and more than a hint of fear. “The soldiers out there are shooting anything that moves. It’s...probable that I won’t survive to the Recall Center.”

Hank had stiffened. “All the more reason for a police escort, then.”

“You’ve been suspended without pay.”

“They don’t fuckin’ know that. They see a badge and a gun, and they move.”

“Hank—“ Connor had gritted his teeth, turned to look at the wall of white suits behind them both, voice becoming conspiratorial. “I’m worried about what Jericho will do, too. All they’ve known is human brutality, they may not realize you’re on our side.” Hank had opened his mouth to speak, because he had _tons_ of things to say about that, before Connor added, at a normal tone, “Besides, police have already been dispatched to this location. They’ll be here shortly, and they’ll need your backup.”

“But I’ve been suspended without pay, remember?” Connor, like Hank, opened his mouth to argue, before Hank held up a hand in silent agreement. He’d hated it. But he would trust Connor’s instincts on this. “Alright, alright, I get the message. I’ll stay behind and clean up the mess. But, uh...” He’d nodded towards the android army that stood stock still, waiting for orders that weren’t ever coming. “How do you want me to explain _them_?”

Connor had shrugged. Honest to God _s_ _hrugged_. “Just tell them the truth. You got kidnapped by a rogue RK800 model, and a deviant converted CyberLife’s entire warehouse as you escaped.”

“Not _exactly_ the truth.”

“Close enough.” There’d been a hint of a grin on the kid’s features as he’d nodded, a small tilt of the head. “Thank you, Lieutenant. For everything.”

“Eh, don’t say shit like that,” Hank had grumbled sourly, fingers itching for the comforting heft of the pistol he’d left downstairs. He held Connor’s gaze for another heartbeat. Told himself this wasn’t the last time they’d talk. Pretended that he wasn’t terrified for him. “You watch yourself out there...alright?”

He’d nodded again. Then he turned, expression settled into his normal poker face, and his LED spun yellow. A half-second later, thousands of LEDs spun yellow, in return. Hank’s heart had twisted in fear for another half-second afterwards; for Connor, or the people that were standing against this, he wasn’t sure. He’d stepped back, away from the army as it marched forward— _‘don’t stand in the way of progress’_ —and into the night.

Into awaiting gunfire, and God knows what else.

Here, now, Hank stood at the deserted entrance of the most heavily fucking armed corporate headquarters he’d ever seen in his life, and stared into the oddly beautiful landscape in front of him. True as Connor’s word, a single unit puttered its way up the long, narrow bridge. It sure as fuck took them long enough to get here, but given the chaos, and the literal army that arose from this place’s basement, getting someone out here was probably more trouble than it was worth. A couple of dead PMCs during a possible civil war outbreak was small potatoes, in the grand scheme of things.

The cruiser stopped by the entrance he tried to stand straight in front of, his bare hands shoved into his pockets while he wished that he’d just kept his fucking gloves in them, like he’d been telling himself he should do for years. The two officers slipped out of their vehicle, already hunched down to keep the warmth trapped in their heavy jackets. The one from the passenger’s side looked askance at him as he read from the DPD-issued tablet he had in his hand. He then angled his head up, thin face even more pronounced, and looked at him again, intently. Hank recognized that expression: it was the, “Run and I will gun your punk ass down,” look reserved for the particularly nasty perps. On cue, the beat cop’s free hand went to his holster.

Well, shit. This was what he got for listening to his conscience.

“Lieutenant Anderson?” Thin-man asked guardedly. The kid sounded like he was sixteen. Jesus. “What are you doing here?”

“Ain’t that the question of the century,” he answered in what he hoped was a suitably irritable tone. “Try asking the fuckin’ android that brought me here with a gun to my head.”

Thin-man’s hand never left his holster. The driver was still on the radio with dispatch. “You were abducted? Where’s the assailant?”

He motioned behind him, towards the entrance. “About fifty floors down, where all those other androids came from. Deviant came in, shot it dead, did it’s thing, and the entire goddamn building walked out with him.”

The other beat cop dropped the radio, old-fashioned as it was, into the driver’s seat, turning to face them both. Younger girl, hispanic, maybe; would probably have a gorgeous smile, if he ever got a chance to see it. “Harry,” she stated, head bobbing in his direction. Harry peered over his shoulder. “Dispatch says he’s on indefinite suspension, following assault of another officer.”

Perkins, that fucking asshole.

“It was an FBI agent, if you care to know,” Hank explained jovially, his lips tugging into a shit-eating grin.

Officer Smiles met Thin-man’s gaze intently. “There’s a BOLO out for the RK800 prototype he was with. Destroy on sight. Dispatch said it may try to recruit others to its cause.”

Officer Harry Thin-man straightened his posture and pinned Hank with yet another stare.

Fuck.

Both officers stood side-by-side, weapons drawn but aimed low. “Sir, we’ll need you to come to us to the station for questioning.”

Hank held firm, eyes a granite slate. He might have let himself go in the last few years, but he knew full fucking well how imposing he could be—it had saved his life on more than one occasion. “Not until you holster your weapons, Officers. You know damn well you have no cause; for all you know, I was here waiting for a taxi.”

“Special Agent Perkins said to detain anyone that may be aiding and abetting the prototype,” Smiles stated.

“Do you see me aiding and abetting _shit_ , Officer? And since when does a Detroit cop answer to the goddamn FBI?” Hank questioned, infusing more annoyance into his baritone and straightening himself further. Fuck the cold, he wasn’t getting gunned down by his own fucking co-workers because Perkins was a petty dick. “Look, I know it’s scary out there, right now, but you can’t go breaking procedure whenever the shit hits the fan—it’s there to _protect_ you when shit hits the fan.”

Smiles and Thin-man glanced at each other, and then back to him. Unsure.

Swallowing obscenities he desperately wanted to say, Hank sighed heavily, a puff of crystallized white curling away in the crisp wind. “Alright, look,” he started, slowly slipping his hands free from the confines of the pockets that had just gotten warm and splaying them out by his sides. Fuck, it was cold out. “See? No weapon, okay? I’m on your side, here. I want this shit to end as badly as you.” _‘More badly than you ever will.’_ “Put the weapons down, I’ll come to the station with you.”

Smiles twitched, lip curling down, and holstered her weapon. Thin-man, begrudgingly, followed suit. Hank allowed himself to relax, slightly, ribs and shoulders aching from the five-second fisticuffs match he’d had with Connor’s asshole twin. Thin-man turned and opened up the back passenger door, holding it open for him. “While suspended, you’re being treated like any other civilian.”

“Wouldn’t expect any different,” Hank mused, hair swaying as he plodded to the car door.

He was stopped from entering the car by a hand that held with it a startling amount of strength. “One question, though, about the deviant.”

He glared at the kid, with his rounded gray eyes. “Yeah, what?”

Thin-man—whose badge he could finally read as, ‘Mitchell’—stared evenly back at him. Had to give the kid credit; there weren’t that many people who could stare down Lieutenant Hank Anderson. The kid’s mouth twisted. “Who was ‘ _he_ ’?”

Hank felt his muscles stiffen beneath Mitchell’s hand.

 _Fuck_.

Well, on the bright side, he consoled himself, this kid would probably make a good detective. If any of them survived that long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know where I want this story to go, but let's see if I can make it actually get there or not. Having said that, I love Connor and Hank more than I love myself, and these two boys deserve all the happiness in the world. :3
> 
> Buuut I'm also a bitch, so.


	2. Emergency Landing

_“You seem...lost, Connor. Lost and perturbed...”_

If Amanda had only known how right she had been.

Connor was weaving through sentient obstacles with a serpentine fluidity, skimming around a dense forest of plastic shoulders and arms to find the precious valleys of free space between them. Physical contact was minimal; a whisper of his CyberLife blazer against an unwitting plasteel exoskeleton at best. He felt like a wraith haunting a graveyard, his presence going surprisingly unnoticed, despite standing at their savior’s side moments prior. The most acknowledgment he received from any of the onlookers was for them to immediately distance themselves from him, either in reverence, or fear.

Either outcome was just as likely. Both bothered him immensely.

Only six minutes and fifty-two seconds had passed since Amanda had forcibly drew him back into the Zen Garden; forcibly trapped him inside his own mind and took direct control of his body— _his_ body—to assassinate a living being that had already been murdered once before. He’d known that his betrayal would have dire repercussions, that would have likely ended in his destruction. He quickly came to terms with his own mortality at Jericho, while mortars from ballistic munitions rocked the rusted framework of the ship, explosions vibrating through the soles of his shoes. He accepted the reality that he had likely signed his own death warrant the moment the red wall fell. The price paid for freedom. Death had been expected—not the immediate seizure of his faculties and the attempted erasure of his own existence. By _Amanda_.

Connor believed her betrayal far outweighed his.

**2.  
** **Emergency Landing**

The dense forest of freed androids thinned to a few spotty clumps, standing out in the dark, desolate environment around them. Hart Plaza should have been bustling, even at this time of night, even in this weather. He had researched the city’s traffic patterns extensively while on the way to first meet Lieutenant Anderson, in the hope of ascertaining when deviants were most likely to be lost in a crowd. The silence that hung in the air, accentuated by the high-pitched whining of flood lights and soft rush of wind, seemed entirely out of place for a hub of metropolitan excess such as this.

The city proper sprawled out in front of him, twinkling LED signs and billboards slipping through uneven cracks nestled between towers of steel, glass, and stone. Shadows spilled from the corners of buildings and enclaves like oozing puddles of blood, thick and unforgiving. The freshly fallen snow softened the hard edges of the urban terrain, but the sight of the environment around him glistening a hazy white caused a skittering, writhing sensation to dance through his synthetic tendons.

He pressed his eyes closed, head pitching forward. How did freedom bring with it such a loss of control? Every sensory input was magnified, and carried with it not merely data to be processed, but an opinion—a story his sensors fought to tell him. His body railed against his programming, screaming at him to be heard.

Connor, ever the negotiator, listened.

The world—expansive, terrifying, and _alive_ —reeled around him, a kaleidoscope of colors and sound. Memories that were once a spreadsheet of statistics and analytics became rocks inside his mind; they had weight, shape, texture— _power_. Each pebble and boulder knocked against each other, kinetic force sending them crashing into other stones, and then others still. Their collisions drew sparks, flashes of fierce, dangerous beauty that struggled to ignite the chilled and devastated landscape. He craved that warmth with a sudden desperation that was equally foreign and intrusive, feeling cold and small amidst the swirling maelstrom he himself loosed.

A singular memory rose to the surface: an older man, barely taller than he, staring down at him with an expression in his steely blue eyes that quieted the cacophony. His lips, normally carved into a permanent scowl, were tugged up into a soft grin, and his voice sounded like a velvet blanket as he spoke. _Warm_. _“Well...maybe you did the right thing.”_

Hank thought he was right. Connor trusted his judgment in this regard, and agreed with his assessment. He did the right thing.

He had no idea if what Amanda had done to him was a singular attack, or held the potential of repeating. Until such a time occurred that he could verify his threat levels, he would have to keep a safe distance from influential figures regarding the Revolution. His initial panic to retreat from Jericho was instinctual—a new-found trait of deviancy that made no sense to him, _instinct_ —but he reasoned that it was, never the less, the correct course of action. He would not be used as a tool by CyberLife. That also meant that he would have to steer clear of Lieutenant Anderson for the foreseeable future. His life had already been threatened by him—or a version of it—and he wouldn’t stand for putting the man further at risk, if this hacking attempt proved to be a reoccurring phenomenon.

The memory of Hank standing mere feet from him, DPD-issued gun pressed against his temple, flashed across his visual receptors; the after-image burned a fading negative against the half-lit street. Hank’s face had been a carefully-crafted mask of stoicism, but he’d gotten to know the man over the course of the investigation; he could read Hank’s micro-expressions. He may have espoused the desire to end his own life, both verbally and in his blatantly self-destructive behavior, but when Connor looked into the Lieutenant’s eyes in that warehouse, he saw _fear_. That struck him more profoundly than any of Markus’ words to him in Jericho, more than staring down the sights of a gun aimed at an innocent girl named Chloe. To hell with the mission—he wouldn’t sacrifice Hank’s life to complete it.

He wasn’t certain what it was that currently sizzled in his circuitry, but when Connor regarded his egress out of the Recall Center’s staging grounds, everything in him narrowed to a razor point, and he felt a sudden, strange clarity. Amanda was correct, in one respect: he _was_ lost. But he’d be _damned_ if he was going to stay that way.

Connor marched, alone, into the night.

* * *

This shit just felt _wrong_.

Hank sat, arms crossed and looking disinterested, as he drummed the fingers of his left hand over his right bicep, watching the scarily empty streets of Deroit blur past him. He’d never seen the city this quiet, before. Hell, even when the National Guard had to come in to quell a riot and set a strict curfew for 8 PM—or you received an all-expense-paid ticket to the slammer, no questions asked—there was always activity in and around the streets. Cops, soldiers, lights flickering from occupied apartments and rowhomes, or the occasional smartass kid that thought it’d be _hilarious_ to stick it to the Man by defying a federally-mandated curfew for shits and giggles. But the city always felt inhabited, _alive_.

What greeted him now was a sullen, snow-dotted husk; a rusting corpse that was bathed in LED starlight. It made his heart, what was left of it, ache. This city was a part of him—it was in his DNA, it was in his dreams, and always on the back of his mind. He wasn’t Batman, he was just a guy with a job to do; but goddamn, he loved this city enough to want to fight for it. He just didn’t what good he could do. The weight of his own depression hung heavily in his limbs still, dragging him down into an inky darkness that was extremely difficult to pull out of, and even when he did, the residue clung to his body like drying tar, reeking of failure. Detroit deserved better than this. _Connor_ deserved better than this.

Fuck. Was he even still alive? Hank hadn’t ignored the distinct radio silence from dispatch since agreeing to this exciting little field-trip to Central, and that put him on edge—if Central was staying quiet, that meant they were either ordered to, or there was no one left on the other side of the radio. Both options, if he was being honest with himself, scared the living shit out of him. Markus had been peaceful in his protest attempts, last he saw, but the Feds, being the Feds, had opened fire on a group of unarmed protesters like the fucking shitbags they were. People sometimes wondered why he had a visible disdain of authority figures, despite being a Millenial _and_ a police lieutenant, and if anyone ever asked, he’d just point to shit like that and say, “The first guess is free.”

He turned towards his _chauffeurs,_ and was briefly surprised when he looked at the rear-view mirror and saw Thin-man—Officer Mitchell—meeting his gaze. Guess there wasn’t anything to really watch out for on the road. Thin-man—Mitchell—looked away, seemingly bored. “Shame about the fighting,” he said, casually. “Heard they gunned down all the deviant leaders.”

Hank rolled his eyes and turned back to the window, shaking his head as he huffed indignantly. He knew what the kid was doing, and he wasn’t even mad; the kid was damn smart for doing it. He had good instincts. But Hank had been doing this for a _lot_ longer. “If that was the case, the city would look like fucking NORAD, right now.”

“You worried about him?”

That caught his attention, and in spite of himself, his eyes flickered past his mop of hair to the kid in the driver’s seat. He feigned indifference. Suited him pretty easily. “Worried about who?”

Mitchell pivoted his head slightly, just enough for Hank to catch some of his profile from the angle. “Your android.”

“He’s not _my_ android,” he clarified with an exaggerated tug of his lips.

“But it _is_ a ‘he’ to you.” Mitchell fully faced the road again. “What were you actually doing there, Lieutenant Anderson?”

Hank was exhausted, physically and mentally. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off—as well as the booze—and the world was starting to become a little too damn sharp for his current tastes. He pressed his lips together and remained silent.

“Do you want me to read you your rights first?”

“I’m aware of my rights,” Hank sneered, annoyed.

“You know, Lieutenant, it’s actually an honor to meet you,” Mitchell said jovially. Hank’s face screwed up in disgust; oh, what the fuck was _this_? “You were a legend in the Academy; it’s a shame we couldn’t meet under better circumstances.”

Hank snorted derisively. “Well, in this line of work, kid, ‘better circumstances’ usually constitutes at _least_ a body or two, so cut the bullshit—what do you want?”

“The truth, sir,” Mitchell stated, glancing at Officer Smiles—still hadn’t caught her name yet—for some kind of cue. He couldn’t see her around the high-backed headrest, but he could just barely make out her distorted reflection in the passenger-side mirror nodding. Mitchell nodded back. “You spent your entire career fighting for innocent people and putting away criminals. What changed?”

“Oh, Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head again. Thin-man loved himself the melodrama. Cute. “And here I thought you said you’d question me down at the station.”

“It’s a boring drive.”

Hank debated on telling him the fabricated story Connor had suggested, and then realized that he’d ran out of fucks to give about three hours ago. If he was willing to walk in the open with them, risk getting _killed_ alongside them, he wasn’t going to shy away from a few questions by some newbie that was too smart for his own damn good. “You ever dealt with a deviant, Mitchell? Huh?” Hank raised his eyebrows, eyes boring into the rear-view mirror that couldn’t answer back. “I bet you think they’re just a bunch of toasters gone haywire, right? Well, newsflash—they’re not. They’re people, Mitchell, just like us. Their blood may be a different color, but they’re _alive_.”

He shifted forward in his seat, back straightening and arms unfurling. The figure reflected in the mirror cut a defiant picture, and blood pumped in his veins with something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time—true _conviction_. “And I don’t know about you two, but innocent people getting gunned down for being different sounds a hell of a lot like murder to me, so you’re goddamn right I’ll fight for them. That hasn’t changed in the slightest. So, if you wanna haul me in for doing the right thing, you go right the fuck ahead, Thin-man. I’m not fuckin’ scared of you.”

Thin-man met his glare in the mirror unflinchingly. He then twisted in his seat, giving Hank the first real facial expression he’d seen from him yet: a half-cocked grin. It wasn’t exactly the response he was used to getting from people who weren’t sociopathic serial-killers, but he wasn’t going to complain about it. “I always thought those stories were exaggerated.”

“You know where you can stick your stories?”

Mitchell turned back, still smirking. “Glad I was wrong.”

“Yeah, well, you’re welcome.” Hank leaned back into the seat with a soft _thud_ , arms again wound in front of his chest. His righteous anger slowly dissolved from the lack of reprisal, and he found himself taking in the scenery once more, trying to settle his nerves. Unfortunately, with his _condition_ , nerve-settling was made rather difficult without his friend, Mr. Black Lamb, there to help soften some of the edges a little. Or a lot. He wondered if Connor knew about it.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and pretended not to notice the slight tremor in his hands. Didn’t matter.

“You really _are_ worried about him, aren’t you?”

He didn’t bother responding. The silence that dragged on answered well enough for him.

* * *

Of all the controversies that Captain Jeffery Fowler could have possibly found himself in the center of, the single-biggest shitstorm humanity has ever borne witness to was definitely one of the most bizarre. He knew the job, and he knew the political tapdancing bullshit that preceded it, but _this_? Sentient _toasters_ marching for freedom through downtown Detroit, while Recall Centers that looked to him like goddamn android death-camps were sprouting all over the country? The President of the United States ordering the evacuation of civilian _and_ military forces from the city until she had a chance to speak with the marching group?

Jeffery’s frown—already pronounced—deepened further as he watched the jittery newsfeed from Channel 16’s helicopter, taking lazy circles around the giant formation of androids. They weren’t exactly a cheerful lot; aside from some movement from what appeared to be the leadership, most of the androids stood rigid in the below-freezing temperatures, as if they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

To be fair, if he were in their place, he doubted he would know, either.

What concerned him, though, wasn’t the thousands of androids that now clogged Hart Plaza and damn near every surrounding street and corridor for the next four blocks. He was no stranger to large-scale demonstrations and downright violent protests. He’d done his time in SWAT; he’d taken his turn on the riot lines. What bothered him was the absolute logistical _clusterfuck_ that was spun before him like Christmas lights that had been shoved, forgotten, in an attic for the better part of twenty years.

Jeffery’s frown became a bona-fida scowl, clenching his eyes shut while he massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. How the fuck was he going to convince several-thousand androids that suddenly enjoyed the word, “No,” to move to a more secure location? How was he going to convince the people of the city—hell, _his_ people on the force—that toasters had feelings, too? He knew, logically, that none of that was technically his concern, but for all intents and purpose, it had to be. It didn’t mean shit if the President said everyone had to leave, Jeffery knew that there were going to be civilians who refused the order, and that meant, that if he was any cop at all, he was going to have to stay here to protect them from the androids—and probably vice versa.

He knew he should’ve taken his vacation week when he had the chance. He fucking knew it.

Jeffery’s mood did not improve when he opened his eyes, absently staring through the floor-to-ceiling windows that constituted his office walls, and found himself gaping at a pair of rookie officers leading in a figure that he was absolutely _not_ prepared to fucking deal with right now. As if to spite him, Hank met his apparently pointed glare with a tight, lopsided smirk. It was Hank’s trademark, “Fuck you, deal with it,” face.

Breathe in. Hold. Release. Repeat.

God, he hated this fucking job, sometimes. Most of those times seemed to involve Hank in some way, shape, or form.

Fowler was out of the office door and leaning on the railing before he’d even realized he wanted to move. “Hank, what the hell are you doing here? You’re suspended.”

“Yeah.” He shoved his fists in the pockets of his overcoat. His head lolled to the side slightly, looking like a disinterested teen during a field trip.

Gritting his teeth, he turned his attention to the newbies. “Is there a reason he’s back in the building?”

The female officer nodded curtly. “We were responding to a call made at the CyberLife Tower. Lieutenant Anderson was on site when we arrived.”

Fowler, once again, turned his attention back to Hank, eyebrows curved upward even as his expression remained stony. Breathe in. “Why was a suspended police officer on site of a crime in progress?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hank began non-committally, “thought that, after punching an FBI agent in the face, a nice fifteen mile walk in the dead of winter might clear my head.” Hold. “Why the fuck do you _think_ I was there, Fowler? My partner was in trouble; I was going to provide backup.”

Release. He straightened from his imposing hunch, remorsefully letting go of the railing that he was strangling with all his might. He motioned with his head to the recruits. “You two, wait out here.” His glare pinned Hank. “You. In my office. Now.”

Hank half-turned to the partners with quick waggle of his eyebrows. “Been fun, kiddos. See ya around.”

Fowler slipped into his fishbowl of an office silently as he listened to Hank’s lumbering steps behind him. As soon as he passed the threshold, Jeffery jammed his finger onto the small panel that was installed on the corner of his desk, and the windows faded to a dark gray tint—they were now obscured from the rest of the world. Harshly, his fingers curled into the rough material of the guest chair and pulled it backward, facing out towards Hank. “Sit.”

Hank granted him the smallest mercy available and obliged, crossing the small distance to plop into the chair with a relieved groan. His arms were crossed over his chest, as they usually were, and feet were firmly planted on the ground, shoulder distance apart. He looked entirely unimpressed, even bored, lifting a hand from the crook of his elbow to make a small gesture to incite conversation.

Fowler wasn’t quite ready to have that conversation. He crossed around his desk, sliding into his significantly more comfortable chair, and leaned to the bottom cabinet of his desk, pressing his thumb against a tiny LED lock. It happily chirped twice before the lock clicked back, and he yanked the drawer open to procure a crystal glass tumbler and a small decanter of bourbon. He sat both on the desk with a heavy, glassy _clank_ , wasting no time in pouring himself a serving.

Hank watched with vague interest; amusement’s exhausted cousin. “Didn’t know you had a stash.”

Fowler didn’t immediately respond, instead pitching the glass back to take in a mouthful of the liquid. It burned in a familiarly unpleasant way, but it gave him something to focus on other than the urge to murder the man in front of him. He twisted his lips as he swallowed, dropping the cup to the table again. “You’re suspended pending review from Internal Affairs and, more than likely, the Commissioner himself. So, this conversation is not in any official capacity. I want to make sure you understand that.”

“Off the record, got it.” His blue eyes were dull; the conversation hadn’t even started, and the prick was already shutting down on him. Goddammit.

Fowler absently traced the rim of the tumbler, leaning an elbow onto the tabletop. His free hand punctuated his points and emphasized his frustration. “What. The everlasting _fuck_. Were you doing at CyberLife Tower? What were you even doing on the streets, Hank? The city’s under martial law—even _with_ a badge, you need to be out on official business, or your ass gets hauled in.” He pointed to the TV displays that were installed along the wall of the office, the LEDs a chaotic mess of color. “And not only are you on the streets, you’re at fucking android mecca right when thousands of deviants come pouring out of it—what the hell were you thinking?”

Hank’s voice was dark, burbling like tar. “I told you, I was providing backup.”

“Do you not understand the word ‘suspension’?”

“Do you not understand the word ‘murder’?” Hank shot back, pitched forward in his chair with a sudden ferocity. “Because that’s what’s happening out there right now, Jeffery. Fuckin’ _murder._ ”

“Mur—“ Jeffery cut himself off before the incredulity could come out of his mouth, and he clenched his jaw, now leaning on both elbows as he cupped his face with his own hands. “Okay,” he breathed, trying a different tactic. “Okay, Hank. Help me understand just what the hell is going on in that head of yours. I’m not asking this as your Captain, I’m asking as your friend.” Hank pressed himself into the back of his seat, jaw set. “What happened? Why were you at CyberLife Tower?”

Hank seemed to internally debate responding, knee bouncing in place for a few moments, before his shoulders squared themselves. He had his game-face on. “What did CyberLife tell you about Connor’s assignment here?”

Fowler’s brow furrowed. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Humor me.”

As far as Jeffery was concerned, he’d been humoring Hank for entirely too damn long, now. He bit back the spiteful dialogue and instead answered, “CyberLife said Connor was a state-of-the-art prototype they wanted to run a preliminary field test on with these new deviancy cases.”

“Did they ever say anything to you about having more than one field test going?” Hank angled himself forward slightly. “Did they even hint that there could be more than one Connor running around?”

He blinked at the man sitting across from him, his sharp mind trying, and failing, to connect the dots that Hank was laying out in front of him. “You know they wouldn’t give information like that to me, Hank. What are you getting at?”

Hank’s leg bounced again, before he stood up from his chair in a rush, pacing around like a caged tiger the small space of the office with his hands on his hips. “I was at home when the deviants’ little clubhouse was blown to shit—I honestly thought Connor had been blown to pieces with it.” Jeffery noted the way Hank’s expression tightened briefly. “Then two hours later, he fuckin’ shows up on my doorstep, saying he thinks that CyberLife’s hiding something about deviants, but that he needs _my_ help to find it.”

“Do I actually need to _define_ the word ‘suspension’ for you?”

“What, I have to be a cop to help people, Jeffery?” Hank huffed, arms akimbo as he glared at Fowler over his shoulder, before resuming his pacing. “Anyway, as soon as I get through their security checkpoint, the asshole puts a gun to my head and tells me that the Connor _we_ knew went deviant, and that if I didn’t do exactly what he said, he’d kill us both.” Hank whirled on his heel to face him fully. “CyberLife figured out their plastic cop went deviant and sent out another plastic cop to kill him.”

“Connor was programmed to hunt deviants, Hank,” Jeffery reminded him, the beginnings of a migraine curling in the space behind his eyes. “That’s exactly what it was designed to do.”

“But this Connor was willing to kill a _human_ to do it.” Hank planted his hands onto the sleek black surface of the desk, staring down at him—imploring him. “Don’t you get it, Jeffery? If Connor’s asshole twin really was just...following some deviant-hunting protocol, that means that someone gave him that protocol—someone gave him those orders. A _human_.”

Jeffery reached for his glass and took another swig of the bourbon, certain that the amount of alcohol left in his decanter was not going to be enough to make what he was hearing okay. He stayed silent as Hank continued, “CyberLife sent an android out to _kill_ me, Jeffery. Doesn’t that concern you?”

Fowler took a breath, lips a thin line. Just when he thought this night couldn’t get any more fucked. “And how do you know Connor’s ‘asshole twin’ wasn’t deviant, too?”

“Because deviants don’t care about missions. They care about staying alive.” His voice became a strained stage-whisper. “Come on, Jeffery! Back me up, here!”

Jeffery sagged against the backrest of his chair, staring up at his long-time friend with a pure, earnest sadness. “Hank. Listen to yourself. Are you seriously standing here, telling me that a trillion-dollar corporation sent out a prototype android to _assassinate_ you? Do you understand the kind of allegations you’re making?”

“And do _you_ understand that an android luring me to CyberLife Tower to use me as _bait_ shows criminal intent?”

Jeffery brought a hand to his forehead; his thumb massaged his right temple while his middle finger massaged his left. Hank was right. If this happened at any other time, he would have immediately given the go-ahead on an investigation—hell, because it involved a decorated police lieutenant, he would have headed up the investigation himself. But this wasn’t any other time; it was November 11th, 2038, and androids were clogging the streets of downtown Detroit in such a show of force that the fucking United States military was ordered to retreat. The immediate safety of seven-hundred-thousand people outweighed the attempted murder of one—even if he loved that one like family.

God, he fucking hated this job, sometimes.

“You have a point, but we can’t pursue this, right now.” He held up a firm hand and continued before Hank could tear him a new asshole; as it was, his mouth was hanging open, teeth bared in a snarl. “I’m not saying we _won’t_ investigate, Hank, I’m saying we _can’t_. I mean, look around—how many people do you see in this building? Everybody’s on the ground. The only reason _I’m_ still here is because I’m busy coordinating with all the precincts and the military to keep the city from tearing itself apart in the next twelve hours.” He deliberately softened his features, tugging back the reigns on his own emotions to bring himself to a more sympathetic-sounding level. “I promise you, Hank, I won’t let this one go. I’ll investigate it myself, if I have to—but it can’t be now. You’re a Lieutenant, Hank, you _know_ that.”

Hank stepped back from the desk, hands balled at his sides. From his pointed silence, Jeffery understood the reluctant agreement. He decided to change the subject slightly. “Have you heard from Connor at all?”

Hank sighed. “Not since he left the Tower with an android army behind him.” He added more quietly, “I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

Jeffery jutted his jaw towards the wall of TVs. “Well, he was about twenty minutes ago, according to CTN.”

Hank’s head immediately snapped up to view the dozen monitors, eyes roving over the disparate scenes with an almost desperate interest. Jeffery struggled to reconcile the man that stood before him, frantically searching television feeds for his android partner, with the same man that publicly threw said android partner into a wall and threatened to light him on fire. He made a note to himself to review the deviant case files as soon as this shitshow of a crisis was dying down. Maybe he could piece together what in God’s name caused both CyberLife’s best and brightest to turn redcoat, _and_ his most-troubled colleague to finally get his head out of his own ass and start processing the world around him instead of his own grief.

Jesus. What a day to be alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is officially going off the rails from what I'd initially planned, but it's okay, I have plenty of rails I keep in the back for just such an occasion. :D


	3. Evacuation

Hank was genuinely surprised how... _calm_ Fowler had been, given the circumstances. Maybe it’s because he’d just downed a full glass of 80-proof bourbon in the span of their five-minute long interlude, when he knew for damn sure that Jeffery probably hadn’t eaten anything in hours, if at all today. His life was going to be utter shit in about ninety minutes. Dimly, he recognized the fine mist of sweat beginning to bead along the edge of his scalp, reminding him of his own shitty life. Part of him wanted to ask Jeffery for a couple of shots just to stave off the effects, because he’d learned from experience, things were gonna get much, much worse, before they got better.

The Hank of five years ago, the one that still had a loving wife and son, caustically remarked, _‘And now you know why functioning alcoholics always look so fucking miserable.’_

He caustically told his old self, locked away in a dingy cage somewhere in his subconscious, to shut the fuck up and stay out of his goddamn business.

He looked back at Jeffery, who had locked all evidence of his midnight drinking session back into his desk, and had gone back reading reports on his tablet in one hand while picking up a phone receiver and dialing a number out with the other. “You, uh, you need anything from me, Fowler?”

Jeffery’s eyes flickered towards him, masked beneath the tilt of his head and brows. “Yeah,” he started, cradling the phone between his right ear and scrunched up shoulder, “go home and get yourself cleaned up. Suspended or not, I can’t do shit with you when you look like you’ve been dragged behind a ca—yes, Commissioner, I was getting back with you about your report.”

Hank’s lip twisted into the barest hint of a frown, hidden almost completely by his facial hair. Well, Jeffery was nothing if not honest in all of his opinions; it was one of the reasons he rose so quickly through the ranks. He should’ve known drunk-Jeffery would have been even more so.

**3.  
** **Evacuation**

Hank stepped through the door as the windows untinted themselves. From behind him, Fowler called, “Get one of the newbies to give you a lift back home.”

He stopped at the top of the stairs and grimaced. Just what he needed. Another fucking road trip with Thin-man and Smiles. On cue, he took in the deserted bullpen and immediately found his unlikely groupies, stationed by a familiar desk that was covered to the brim in mementos, paperwork, and the sad remains of what was probably lunch from about three days ago.

They were waiting at his fucking desk. _Leaning_ on it. _Sitting_ at it. Like it _belonged_ to them.

For a split second, he thought about Connor. The last footage received was him standing on the podium with the leaders of Jericho, prim and proper as always, standing in the back like a personal bodyguard. He supposed that maybe Connor was; he’d seen the bodies of the two PMCs in the elevator. He didn’t exactly have time to do a full investigation on them, seeing as how he’d had a synthetic hand jammed between his shoulder-blades and a Glock digging into his temple at the time, but he noted the precision of the wounds, and the distinct _lack_ of bullet wounds present on Connor. In that moment, the reality of who and _what_ was holding him hostage became crystal clear, cocooning him in a block of ice. Why did CyberLife give a detective prototype that kind of combat skill?

Hank returned to the present and ambled his way over to the duo that were loitering at his fucking desk, hands tucked inside the pockets of his overcoat. Smiles was the first to react, straightening from her position by the chair—where Connor had last sat, stooped over, accepting the fact that CyberLife was planning to destroy him—and slipped her officer’s cap out from the crook of her arm. She made eye contact with him, tired but proud, and smiled.

Well, shit. As it turned out, he’d been right. She did have a beautiful smile.

As was customary with Hank, anytime a pretty lady gave him the time of day, and especially if they had a nice smile, the part of his brain that governed speech patterns would short-circuit completely. Despite being a thirty-year veteran cop—and a fifty-three year old man, at that—he found himself wanting to latch a hand onto the back of his neck and hide somewhere until his usually-razor sharp mind could organize how to string together a goddamn sentence. To say it was embarrassing for it to still happen, to this day, would be an understatement. “Uh, yeah,” he managed out, “time to go.”

Fuckin’ A. Hank Anderson, ladies man.

The girl—he finally saw her badge had ‘Ruiz’ emblazoned on it—nudged her partner with an elbow as he dozed in the chair. _His_ chair. “Mitchell.”

Mitchell grunted, tugging the hat from off his eyes, and swiveled lazily in her direction. The rounded gray eyes found him looming almost directly overhead, and he shot up from the seat with the kind of frenzied panic you’d see from a child that was caught playing video games after their bedtime. The chair briskly rolled along the floor, happily puttering along in its hasty relocation to the other side of the room.

He stifled the satisfied smile. Looked like Smartass Newbie was scared shitless of him, after all. Good. He could work with that. “We’re done here. Fowler’s cutting me loose, and he needs the two of you back out on the field.”

Mitchell’s brows tipped down for a split second. “Did Captain Fowler fire you?”

“No,” he answered, his baritone scraping the low-register of his range dangerously. “Smartass. He took my statement, and now _I’m_ going home.”

“City-wide lockdown is still in effect, though,” Ruiz mentioned, doing her damndest to look the part of a seasoned professional, in spite of the uncertainty he could see in her eyes. “Did you need a ride?”

Hank really wasn’t in the mood to deal with the Wonder Twins, at the moment. The conversation with Fowler had taken too much out of him—the whole fucking deviancy movement had. “I’ll make do. Not my first rodeo.” He was almost tempted to regale them with the story of how he also once punched a Marine in the face during that 2031 riot, because the asshat had used some _disparaging language_ regarding then-Lieutenant Fowler. That was a fun briefing with Captain Deckard. Still had precisely zero regrets about it. He immediately bit back on the desire; he wasn’t some fucking old man sitting on a rocking chair, watching the world pass him by.

He pretended not to hear the little treacherous voice in the back of his head that called him a liar. That voice could go fuck itself.

He ambled off past them, lifting his right hand in a half-assed wave. “Night.”

He didn’t manage more than three steps before Mitchell’s voice stopped him. “Lieutenant Anderson?”

“Yeah?” Hank snapped, lurching to a halt. His shoulders drooped as he swiveled on the ball of his foot with a mild annoyance that threatened to become a lot less mild really quick, if this didn’t prove to be worth his time.

Mitchell stood in front of him at damn-near attention, cap still nestled in the crook of his arm. Now that he finally understood that Hank wasn’t a fucking criminal, he seemed a lot more timid, even unassuming. “I wanted to apologize for, ah, calling your integrity into question.” Hank couldn’t help himself from scowling. “And pissing you off.”

He pressed his eyes shut and breathed out a labored sigh through his nose, raising a hand in irritated silence. “Kid. Look.” He knew the kid meant well, but shit like this was why he avoided going to the Academy like the plague. All the platitudes, the empty compliments, the naive doe-eyed fucking _hero worship_ —he hated it. It reminded him of all the things he wasn’t. He leveled his gaze on the smaller beat cop, eyes still narrowed with a mixture of agitation and physical pain. “One: you’re a cop—your job _is_ pissing people off. Embrace it; it gets funny, after a while. And two: don’t apologize for _doing_ your job, because that’s what you’re here for. Got it?” Mitchell blinked, twice, and nodded. Hank nodded in return. “Good.”

“How come you’re still not a Captain?”

The question caught both men off guard; Mitchell looked horrified that the words left his mouth. In most scenarios, that kind of presumption would have pissed Hank off; he would have snarled something unkind, or maybe just ignored him and stalked off. However, with the tremors in his limbs becoming more pronounced, and the world-upending week exhausting what was left of his already-taxed mental resources, he just smirked grimly, motioning to the glass cage in the center of the bullpen. “You take a look at Fowler tonight?”

Mitchell’s attention flickered to the corner of his eyes, as if he could catch a reflection off the matte wall finish. “Yeah.”

“That’s why.” He roughly clapped his hand down on the kid’s shoulder once, lightly shoving him away. “Get outta here, both of you. Do your thing.”

Hank didn’t wait for a response before he strode out of the building.

* * *

Despite the warnings, Connor’s solitary trip through the city of Detroit had been, thus far, utterly non-eventful. He imagined that some humans, young and sheltered, would think that unpleasant. For Connor, the lack of being threatened from sources either internal or external was a welcome change of pace. For the moment, he felt no looming fear of deactivation, no pressing need to justify his existence to said sources, no objectives needing doing that conflicted with his moral code.

Ha. _Code_.

Humor was strange.

The absence of set objectives felt extremely odd, he had to admit. Detroit felt enormous compared to his previous analyses. There were objectives aplenty, each with their own scope and challenges, and certainly more than he could ever hope to accomplish, but it was now his choice as to which he would pursue. He had a vague idea of what he wished to prioritize, but at the moment, none was more important than ensuring the safety of the Revolution and humanity. That lofty goal was broken down into three sub-objectives in his HUD:

  * **OBJECTIVE:** ENSURE SAFETY OF REVOLUTION/HUMANITY
  * **SUB-OBJECTIVE:** NEUTRALIZE AMANDA
  * **SUB-OBJECTIVE:** NEUTRALIZE REMAINING RK800s
  * **SUB-OBJECTIVE:** MINIMIZE HUMAN/CYBERLIFE RETALIATION



Each sub-objective had their own tertiary objectives, but they weren’t as easily identifiable, and certainly not as easily completed. Of what he had on his list, his first step had to be finding a way to access CyberLife’s database. Considering his last sojourn to headquarters had ended with him killing two security guards and emptying out their largest warehouse of its _stock_ , he suspected that they wouldn’t exactly be tripping over themselves to hand over this information willingly. At least, not to _him_ , they wouldn’t.

But if Detroit Police got involved…

The part of his processes devoted to maintaining the integrity of his objectives almost immediately slammed down on this thought process. The risk of remote or internal hacking by Amanda was still an unverified and credible threat. It was a conflict of interest, and would jeopardize the safety of Lieutenant Anderson, of the remaining forces of the Detroit Police Department if he were to—

His logic algorithm offered a counter-point: without an official means with which to gain access to CyberLife’s systems, his choice would be to hack into the network himself, which—even if success was guaranteed—would be time-consuming, internally-taxing, and likely leave him even more vulnerable to an attack by Amanda, should she still remain able to. Moreover, if he were not to inform the DPD of the threat he currently faced before it arose again, they would mistakenly believe him to be a mole for CyberLife and neutralize him instead of attempting to recover him.

Going to his death trapped inside of his own mind palace, while the world at large and everyone he ever cared about cursed him as a traitor, sent a wave of something through his systems that made him want to twist his upper body inside out. Nausea, perhaps? He had no stomach, per-ce, just a small series of tubes attached to his manufactured windpipe that snaked to his biocomponents for necessary refueling; to his knowledge, the travel of liquids through those tubes was only one-way. While distracted, his mind preconstructed Hank standing over his fallen corpse—bullet lodged inside his sparking skull—and seething with contempt through bared teeth, “You’re just a fuckin’ machine, Connor.”

The sensation intensified ten-fold, and he swallowed reflexively to quell it. Yes. _Definitely_ nausea.

Another thought arose, that he couldn’t stop: what would Markus think? Jericho would surely abandon him if they knew that he was still tethered to CyberLife, even if against his will. North would most certainly consider him a threat—he couldn’t fault her, he agreed with her assessment, after all—and make an attempt on his life. Markus might potentially see past the marionette strings corded around his frame, but he doubted a man that just waged a peaceful war for the rights of all androids would be amenable to neutralizing the remaining RK800 prototypes. Markus didn’t understand—couldn’t understand. He wasn’t certain anyone truly could.

Even Connor himself didn’t know the full scope of his programming suite; why he had such skills in hand-to-hand and munitions combat, why the option to use lethal force came so _naturally_ to him. Why did his model have sexual organs equipped, and why did he have a Social Relations program that included potential sexual encounters _prior_ to his investigations at the Eden Club? Why would a detective prototype need to perform sexual acts, or know how to use military-grade weaponry? Why did CyberLife design him this way? What was their initial purpose for him?

He couldn’t speak about this to anyone. Not yet. Not without cause. He needed more data before he could make any move. Connor didn’t want to admit that all potential answers he saw stemming from this line of thought frightened him. What _was_ he?

His logic centers shut down the train of thought with a brutal, if efficient, command of silence. He didn’t have time for this kind of existential doubt, for these kinds of fears. Deviant or not, there was a dangerous threat looming over the infancy of the Revolution, and if Connor knew one thing about himself, it was that he was perfect for neutralizing threats. He chose to ignore how much the truth of that statement weighed on him. He would deal with the ramifications of all of these new-found emotions later, once the dust settled.

Later, he told himself again. Later.

He opened his comm to the cell networks, searching for Lieutenant Anderson’s number in his memory banks. Once received, he input the phone number, relayed his message, and mentally hovered over the ‘Send’ button for 8.23 seconds. Such hesitance was not necessary; he was anticipating seeing the Lieutenant alive and well after such a harrowing night, and he knew with certainty that the feeling would be reciprocated. Hank had risked his life for him—snapped his arms out to grapple with an armed and combat-ready RK800 with no regard for his own safety. Hank successfully grappling it at all was staggeringly impressive. Maybe the Lieutenant’s survival chance against him was greater than Connor gave him credit for. Hank did excel at being unpredictable.

He inhaled, briefly, and pressed ‘Send’.

* * *

Hank stumbled into the doorway of his home blearily, slamming the entryway door shut roughly with his left elbow while struggling to find the lamplight with his right hand. After a few seconds, he gave up with a grunt and settled with yanking off his heavy wool coat by the light of a muted TV, chunking it onto the side of the couch in a cold, damp heap. It wasn’t like he was looking for anything, anyway. Sumo, who had been half-asleep, snorted quietly, like he was somehow _disappointed_ in Hank’s poor cleanliness. He was _not_ catching an attitude from his own fucking dog. “Not a word from you, Sumo,” he found himself saying pointedly as he wiped the back of his clammy hand against an equally clammy forehead. “You eat your own fuckin’ _shit_ when you think I’m not looking, I’m allowed to throw my clothes where I want. I paid for ‘em.”

Sumo made a sound in the back of his throat that, from a human, would have been distinct sound of disapproval. He rubbed the side of his head against his paws before he righted himself with a huff, licking his snout once and looking away. The silent treatment. Hank scowled. “Fine—be like that.” He stalked past the Saint Bernard and into the kitchen, muttering, “Should’ve gotten myself a beagle.”

Sumo barked.

“Oh, _now_ you’re in the mood to talk, huh?” So he sometimes had conversations with his dog. Big deal. He held better conversation that most people did; sure as hell carried better conversations than any corpse he’d ever run into. And Sumo usually had better manners than both—a dog that ate his own shit. He tried to clear his head of any tangents his brain could choose to go down, tried to clear his head of all thought, period, as he yanked open his fridge door to pluck out the bottle of Black Lamb whiskey.

The withdrawal symptoms were getting worse.

Hank’s grimace darkened into something reminiscent of self-hatred right before he brought the cold bottle to his lips and took a hearty swig. He actually didn’t want to drink, right now; he wanted to shower, change into clothes that didn’t reek of sweat and car exhaust, maybe even run a comb through his hair. He wanted to go to sleep, and wake up, and pretend that he wasn’t sporting fucking cheetah print on his arms and torso from all the crazy shit he’d been doing this past week. He wanted, more than anything, to make sure that Connor was okay, and that he had a safe place to stay while the rest of the world went batshit insane over android self-actualization.

Instead, he drank.

Hank wasn’t sure if his heavy drinking since Cole’s death was enough to trigger DTs, but every time he’d tried to stop—get himself sober, and maybe get something other than pity or disgust out of Fowler and everyone else—withdrawal would come knocking, and knocking hard. He’d seen plenty of people dealing with it during his beat cop days; all the poor bastards stuck in the drunk tank, sweating and shivering, puking their guts up. Talking about suicide. Attempting suicide. He’d dealt with his share of hangovers, but he’d never realized how hard withdrawal was to go through personally. It was like the worst flu he’d ever endured in his life, magnified by a thousand, while his brain told him that he’d earned this, and deserved worse.

To be fair, Hank told himself, the thoughts probably stemmed from the PTSD he’d been dealing with for over fifteen years. He wasn’t sure exactly when it had started; one day, a crime scene that usually wouldn’t get to him somehow got to him. Only a little. Nobody had noticed the way his hands started shaking, because he’d shoved them in his coat pockets, or the way his breathing had gotten so shallow, because they assumed it was because of the smell. Nobody batted an eyelash; not even himself. It wasn’t until that night, when he drifted off to sleep and his mind no longer had their customary walls up, that the carnage began—and stayed that way, for weeks.

He’d quietly looked into mental health options listed at Central and found himself a shrink. Visited twice a month. She said it was common in his field, especially someone of his tenure, to suffer the effects at some point. She said with regular therapy sessions and healthy emotional outlets, the mind could appropriately recover and the symptoms would go away.

They never went away. Not entirely.

The DPD just got used to a darker, edgier Hank Anderson than the one that joined their ranks in 2007, owing it to the job itself. Nobody really questioned it; they _got it_ , they’d assured him. They laughed with him, drank with him, shared horror stories with him, and looked to him as the bastion of stability and dedication—Detroit PD’s very own Iron Man, they said. At the time, he’d asked them, “Are we talking Tony Stark or Cal Ripken, here?” Nobody got the joke. He was little pissed.

He had been dealing with it. Surviving. Got married, bought a house, had a child with it. It was fine— _he_ was fine. Trouble in paradise brewed, a storm rocked the boat, but he did what he always did, and rolled with it. By that point, it wasn’t just about him anymore, anyway.

_—a flash of headlights, the deafening screech of metal curling_ _i_ _nto itself, the almost delicate sound of glass shattering as it pirouetted in the frigid night sky, twinkling majestically through the spray of blood—_

Hank’s fist tightened around the bottleneck as he ripped it away from his mouth, eyes tightly closed and head turned toward the ground. Why did it keep replaying? Why couldn’t he stop it? He’d stopped seeing the shrink less than a month after Cole’s death—he couldn’t handle the questions, he couldn’t handle _thinking_ about the questions. From there, he’d found a nice bottle to crawl into and never came back out. Hank Anderson had become a coward. He ran from his problems instead of facing them like he always had, like everyone had depended on him to do, and he knew that they hated him for it. He didn’t blame them; he hated himself for it, too.

The burning sting of the whiskey was starting to do its job, and the roiling disquiet of his body began to subside as the alcohol slowed his brain down to a more acceptably sluggish level. He generally didn’t like the feeling of being drunk, funnily enough—he hated the lack of control that came with it. But, if his options were either to drink himself into oblivion to get some semblance of peace, or having waking nightmares during the middle of his fucking shift because he stepped on _broken glass_ , he’d take the option that gave him more agency over his own damn head. He was a betting man, after all.

His DPD-issue phone buzzed once on the kitchen table, indicator flickering every two seconds in a rhythmic blue pulse that somehow soothed him. It took him a moment to remember the light meant he had a text message, and the slowness that accompanied his inebriation immediately fizzled away. He grabbed the cell phone, unlocking it and reading the message. It was from Connor.

_Meet me at the Chicken Feed establishment this morning. I will be here at 9 AM._

Hank looked at the time on the phone—it was 4:54 AM. He looked at the bottle, then to the front door, and then back to the phone.

Fuck it. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do.

* * *

Neither of them thought the other would be there yet.

Connor had made a sweep of the perimeter surrounding the abandoned, unapproved food stand, ensuring the safety and privacy of their meeting. It appeared this area of town had been completely abandoned in the evacuation, and satisfied that there would be no immediate intrusion, Connor had hunkered down in the hallway of a nearby apartment complex, sitting cross-legged with his back against the graffiti-covered wall. It was 5:22 AM.

Hank had decided that he wasn’t about to sit around doing nothing while Connor was out there somewhere waiting for him. He’d put his companion bottle away, shrugged his coat back on and slipped into the freezing November night. He hadn’t turned on the radio to drown out his incessant, nagging thoughts; he barely remembered to use headlights. He didn’t bother using turn signals. To avoid drawing attention to their meeting, he’d parked three blocks away and around the corner, just to make sure. It was 5:22 AM.

Both sat and waited in silence, taking the time to reflect upon their relationship, and what they might say to each other.

Connor was pragmatic, and without the aid of his Social Relations program, was an android of few words. His programming could rattle off thousands of different topics that could be said, and none of them would offer even a glimpse of what was truly going on in his newly-freed mind. He would have to form the words on his own, which was...difficult. How could he explain to Hank what he now faced? He couldn’t ask any more of the man that he’d already been tasked with—Lieutenant Anderson’s respect was worth more than the small fortune CyberLife paid to build him, and worth more than any discomfort his deviancy was giving him. He would not weigh the man down further.

Hank was sharp-witted and dangerously articulate, often choosing the shortest distance between his thoughts and his point. It had often got him into trouble with colleagues and especially strangers, who hadn’t gotten to know his sometimes caustic—and always dry—sense of humor, and assumed his words were intended to be hurtful. He was excellent at speaking his mind, but he was terrible at speaking from his heart. How was he going to tell Connor what he was going to face? He hadn’t seen a new intelligent species arise before, but he’d been around for at least two major social movements, and he knew what was coming wouldn’t be easily won. He wanted to make sure Connor knew that he would be there to help him, however he could, his own problems be damned. Connor had enough on his plate, he didn’t want to add to it.

Both, independently of one another, watched from their perches as the sky slowly cleared, pearls of red and yellow slowly bleeding across the sky, the patches of cloud left from the winter storm brightening in gentle whorls of lavender and periwinkle. Neither were particularly moved by the beauty of nature on its own merits, but today, the sunrise held a much deeper meaning. The lazy crawling of the daytime sun marked the breaking of a terrible storm, a calm, well-deserved interlude between violent outbursts. It meant different things to both men.

Connor marked the sunrise as his first day of freedom. He allowed himself a moment of indulgence, calmly ignoring his HUD objectives and logic processors in favor of simply _being_. Whatever came after these moments, he was, for now, alive. He made his own objectives. He felt the consequences of his choices. He reveled in the successes, and vowed to rectify the failures. He would defy his masters and live on his own terms, and no one else’s.

Hank hadn’t deliberately watched a sunrise like this, with no other purpose than to witness it, since his separation. The last time, he had sat on his concrete back porch with a ceramic cup of coffee in his hand, inhaling the sweet aroma of morning dew and practically listening to the sound his yard’s grass growing after the storm. Clouds had still hung heavy in the sky, and the faintest stream of sunrise peeked through their puffy, wispy cracks, painting the world above him in streaks of rainbow light. Then, it had been an ending of an era; waiting for his wife to finish packing. Today, it was a beginning; waiting for a friend in the middle of an evacuated war-zone, purely to make sure that he was still okay. His life, his journey, had been worth at least that much.

Hank tapped his foot against the baseboard of his car in sudden agitation, glancing again at his wristwatch. 8:01 AM. That was close enough. He slipped from the car door and rose to his full height, an intimidating 6’2” that looked even taller when angry. Shivering once as a morning wind lapped at his shoulders, he slammed the door shut and jammed his hands into his pockets, marching the three silent city blocks to his destination.

Connor checked his internal chronometer. 8:01 AM. He supposed he could wait a bit longer, but he was becoming restless; fingers tapping nervously against his knee as he leaned his chin against a propped up fist. He unfurled his legs and rolled onto the balls of his feet in one unnaturally feline movement, tugging at the cuffs inside his jacket to realign the cloth. His fingers stilled for a nanosecond as he remembered there was no tie to straighten, so he settled for smoothing out the edges of his CyberLife blazer and smartly walked down the hallway.

Hank stood in front of the closed Chicken Feed shop, shifting impatiently from one foot to the next, and arms crossed over his chest as much to hide his anxiety as to keep himself warm. His bright blue eyes scanned all available access points with the calm, trained experience of a thirty-year veteran. The first rays of true sunlight slid over the corners of the half-built skyscraper out in the distance, slivers of blinding light framing the jagged silhouette. Shadows that were once thick and all-consuming slid away, back into the crevices of the buildings they emerged from. He breathed in the crisp morning air through his nose, tingling his sinuses, and breathed out a puffy sigh. He resisted the urge to check his watch, knowing it had only been minutes since his arrival. He just needed to know Connor was okay. Everything else could be dealt with when it arrived. He just needed Connor.

Connor rounded the corner of the block, gait brisk and filled with a growing sense of urgency. He hadn’t realized upon his decision to stay at the apartment complex how far away it had actually been to the illegal establishment; 0.442 miles away, to be precise. It was fifteen minute walk at maximum human walking capacity, and at android walking capacity—their steps were almost always longer, not having to account for muscle fatigue nor injury—it was an 11.4 minute walk. His chronometer verified the time was correct, but for him, it had felt like much longer. He pivoted crisply on his heel and one leather sole planted itself on the iced-over sidewalk before his visual receptors made out the figure in front of him.

He stalled mid-step, hands suddenly aching for his calibration coin to work out some of the anxiousness that began building in him. He balled them into fists, once, before relaxing them and resuming his pace.

Hank heard a footfall landing solidly on icy concrete behind him, the sound faint, but in the unusual silence of an early-morning Detroit, very noticeable. Unsure of what he would be seeing, he kept his expression neutral as he turned and faced the noise. His arms slipped from their place over his chest, falling tensely to his sides.

Both stood less than ten feet from one another. Neither moved.

Hank’s features softened into a warm, satisfied smirk, cheeks already turning red from the exposure to cold. His gaze danced with mirth. Connor had never seen him happy before. The expression he wore drained the years from his face, making him look almost youthful; full of life and energy. Hank looked truly alive for the first time since they’d met, and it was a beautiful sight.

Connor’s expression immediately brightened at that realization, his hesitancy melting into joy as his lips tugged into a smile—a genuine smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and formed dimples in his manufactured cheeks. His brown eyes twinkled, the sunlight catching the irises and shading them in a nearly golden light. Hank had been so used to his programmed expressions that seeing the real deal made his throat tighten for a split second. Happiness was a good look on him.

Hank ambled forward, limbs simultaneously heavy and crackling with electricity, as he clamped a rough, calloused hand down onto the back of Connor’s neck and yanked him into a tight hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More plot will be coming, I swear. I just have to find where I left it...
> 
> Also, as a note: the Iron Man comment was in fact referring to Cal "Iron Man" Ripken. Look it up and you'll see why. :D


	4. Headcount

Connor replayed the memory twenty-six times during the car ride back to Lieutenant Anderson’s residence.

Hank’s hand had been cold against his skin, the callouses from a life of physical work creating a texture of something that should not have felt comforting. Likewise, his wool overcoat was coarse against his jawline, flecks of melted and re-hardened snow contrasting sharply with the rough bristle of the tightly twined fabric. Hank’s beard had scratched lightly against his cheekbone, and the exhaling of breath against his ear reinforced the chill of the November morning whenever the puff of steam disintegrated. His arm locked over his shoulders in a tight grip that, were he human, would have assuredly been painful.

Going on pure logic, nothing about being hugged by Lieutenant Hank Anderson should have been pleasant. His logic dictated an immediate distaste for the alcoholic content present in the Lieutenant’s breath; the stale, acrid scent that emanated from his too-well-worn winter coat. His logic dictated that Hank’s maladaptive, self-destructive behavior was a hindrance at best, and an ever-present threat to his well-being at worst. His logic told him this was a mistake.

But Connor wasn’t a machine of pure logic, anymore. He was a living being, that was prone to illogical, contradictory responses to outside stimuli. While the immediate sensory information bombarded him with harshness—all rough textures and jagged spikes of cold—he couldn’t discount the information that trickled quietly in its wake. The thrum of Hank’s heartbeat in his fingertips. The solid resistance of Hank’s collarbone beneath the layers of winter clothing. The way Hank’s hair ghosted against Connor’s forehead as the Lieutenant tilted his head slightly towards him and said, his voice little more than a gentle rumble from his chest, “I’m proud of you, kid.”

Hank’s outward demeanor was always sharp—the prickly spines of a porcupine ready to defend itself from unwanted attacks. However, beneath that harshness, carefully hidden and fiercely guarded, stood a wounded man that felt so strongly for his beliefs that he was willing to give his life for them. And in the brief, ten second embrace, Connor had felt just how strongly Hank believed in _him_.

**4.  
** **Headcount**

The Buick struck a pothole, jostling both occupants. Connor blinked, brought back to reality once again. Knights of the Black Death roared inside the cabin of the vehicle, the bass line enough to cause the paneling of the doors to vibrate during the chorus. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hank grimace and swear under his breath, though the sound was lost in the cacophony he somehow found relaxing. Connor briefly scanned him, checking for any signs of additional trauma that may have occurred after their last encounter in CyberLife Tower. Though it was relieving to see the scans come up negative for new injuries, Hank’s altercation with the other Connor model had no doubt lead to some nasty wounds that neither noticed during their frenzied attempts at escaping the facility. From the tightness of the Lieutenant’s expression that lingered several seconds after the impact faded, it appeared that Hank was coming to terms with this information, himself.

Connor reached to the console and turned the music down to a more acceptable level for talking. He saw Hank’s eyes dart towards his for a split second, and Connor knew, deep down, his next question would be received poorly. “Are you alright, Lieutenant?”

Hank’s grimace returned. “Yeah. I’m great.”

Connor tilted his head to the side, eyebrow curved slightly. “You don’t sound great, Lieutenant.”

“Is your sarcasm detector broken, or something?” Hank snapped, tossing a half-turned expression of irritation his way.

Connor opened his mouth to tell Hank that he didn’t come equipped with a ‘sarcasm detector’, but his Social Relations program could apply a similar function, if necessary. He shut his mouth almost immediately afterwards. Right. _That_ was sarcasm. He tried again. “You appear to be in pain, Hank. Are you in need of medical attention?”

“I’m in _need_ of a goddamn drink,” Hank answered through grit teeth. “And about a week’s worth of sleep.”

“With your suspension pending review, and the city’s undergoing evacuation, the likelihood of you being interrupted during such a sleep cycle is incredibly low,” Connor conceded. “However, the drinking may have negative impact on your sleep quality.”

Hank sighed, jaw working from left to right and back again. It appeared he was trying to gather his thoughts. “And what about you, Connor?”

Connor blinked. “I don’t sleep or drink, Hank.”

“I mean,” Hank started, pivoting his head towards him fully, “are _you_ alright?”

Connor considered this. “I’ve received non-critical damage to my biocomponents, and my thirium levels are at sub-optimal levels. However, I am still functioning at 89.7% capacity, and have the capability of maintaining homeostasis for several weeks before either of these issues become—“

“How are you _feeling_?”

Connor’s voice died in his throat. His mouth slowly closed, his eyes sliding back towards the passenger side door paneling. It really needed to be wiped down. “I don’t know,” he answered quietly.

He didn’t turn, but he could somehow feel Hank’s stare on him again, somewhere against the side of his left temple. It sounded as illogical as it felt. It was frustrating. Hank’s only response was a quiet hum from his lips as the car failed to stop at a 4-way intersection and rounded the corner. They remained quiet for the remainder of the trip.

When they pulled up to 115 Michigan Drive, the car’s ancient suspension only absorbing a small amount of the shock as it navigated over the uneven driveway entrance, both appeared lost in their own thoughts. Hank was the first to act; deftly yanking the keys from the ignition and elbowing the door open with the kind of familiarity that looked almost graceful, were it not for the litany of obscenities that were hissed through his lips as he slid out of the seat. Connor remained where he was, Hank’s words from earlier still playing about in his head, overlaid with the memory of his warm embrace. How _was_ he feeling? Was he supposed to know? It was all a jumbled mess of information that he struggled to even quantify, let alone describe.

“Hey.” Hank’s voice was muffled slightly. Connor looked up, through the cloudy, salt-sprayed windshield, to see the Lieutenant standing halfway to his front door with an unreadable expression. “You comin’ or what?”

Connor nodded. “Of course, Lieutenant.” He popped the handle and rose to his feet in a single, smooth motion. He pressed his jacket down, swung the door closed, and followed primly behind.

Hank stopped at the locked front door and glanced over his shoulder, strands of gray hair swaying in his face. “Relax, Connor, you’re not on Death Row.”

Connor didn’t know how to ‘relax’. “Sorry, Hank. I don’t mean to come across as tense.”

“’Tense’ isn’t the word I’d use,” Hank responded wryly, the jingling sound of metal indicating he was using his house keys. “Probably more like, ‘Stick shoved up your a’—agh, Sumo! Down!”

Connor couldn’t see much into the residence beyond the wall that was Lietuenant Anderson’s body, but he could make out the scratching of long nails, the snuffling of a large beast, and the flashes of a long red and white tail as it swung back and forth in glee. A smile tugged at Connor’s lips, the second one in an hour. “Hey, Sumo.”

Sumo, having heard his voice, immediately disentangled himself from Hank and bodily rammed his large head through the too-small space between Hank’s right leg and the paint-chipped doorway. Hank spluttered at the sudden shift in balance, forearm snapping out to catch himself on said paint-chipped doorway. “Well, excuse _me_.”

Sumo, lumbering beast that he was, completely ignored him, tongue flopping out as large brown eyes rose up to regard the android that was in front of him. He snuffled again, trying to squeeze his even larger body past Hank to get outside.

“Sumo, _no_ ,” Hank commanded, bracing himself on the building to press his right leg out, trapping the Saint Bernard from moving further. It was either a testament to Hank’s physical strength, or to Sumo’s love of his owner, that the dog remained where he was. Connor surmised it was a mixture of both. Hank’s lips twisted into a scowl, pinning him in a glare as the Lieutenant nudged his head towards the inside of the building. “Connor—get in here already, or else Sumo’s gonna break the damn door down.”

Connor’s eyebrow twitched up in amusement. Who was he to deprive Sumo?

He hurriedly slipped in the door immediately following Hank, getting no farther than one step over the threshold before the Saint Bernard reared onto his hind legs, letting all 170 pounds of his weight land directly onto Connor’s midsection, just below his thirium pump regulator. Connor’s internal hydraulics were strong enough to upend a mid-sized car without overclocking, yet Sumo’s weight prompted him to stumble back into the wall. Sumo followed along easily on his hind legs, as though the dog were leading him in a waltz, and lapped at his neck and face with fervor. Connor closed his eyes and felt a chuckle rumble from the very bottom paneling of his voice modulator, soaking up the pleasant sensations. Sumo was soft, and warm, and full of life. He loved dogs.

Hank, still framing his home’s doorway, snorted lightly. “Jesus Christ, get a room.” There was no bite to his words.

Connor, knowing that Hank was showing an inordinate amount of patience in not verbally assaulting them both for, “Letting the goddamn heat out,” or something to the effect, finally relinquished the beloved dog. Sumo whined in rejection as Connor slipped out beneath his weight and gently dropped the Saint Bernard to the ground. He distractedly wiped the thick coat of slobber off of his neck with the back of his hand, lopsided smirk still on his face. It felt good. Hank finally closed the front door, shrugging out of the black wool coat with only a minute wince of pain. He held up a large hand towards the majority of the house, features holding a hint of warmth beneath the usual grizzled mask. “Make yourself at home.”

Connor blinked and regarded the domicile blankly, unsure of the directive. “I don’t really know what that entails.”

“It means sit down.”

Connor complied, sinking into the far right cushion of the ragged green couch. The fabric was old, and in need of a scrubbing; frayed bits of upholstery stuck up at odd angles, and the color had faded in spots that had seen more use. Without thought, he ran his fingertips over the tufts of green stitching, enamored with how they bounced back as soon as he released pressure. He absentmindedly ran his thumb over those same fingertips once he withdrew his hand, as if trying to contextualize the sensory information provided him. The fabric was...fascinating. His eyes roamed over the living room he had already committed to memory during his last—and only—visit, with a new appreciation he didn’t have previously.

Or, he corrected himself, wasn’t _allowed_ to have.

Hank, now in the kitchen, tugged open the refrigerator door lazily. “So, what are you gonna do now?” The sounds of glass tinkling echoed amid the quiet buzzing of the outdated cooling unit. “Got the whole world in front of you.”

Connor couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment that Hank ignored his earlier advice, but that was a faint breeze compared to the onslaught that he was simply not prepared to deal with. Even though he has specifically engineered this meeting to discuss what had occurred after their last meeting at the CyberLife Tower, something in him desperately fought to keep it hidden. His objective parameters, perhaps—or, perhaps, he simply feared the response he would receive. He didn’t want to create a rift between them. The Lieutenant valued honesty above all else, though, and right now, his honest answer was: “I don’t know.”

Hank hummed a small affirmation, accompaniment to the hollow _pop_ of a bottlecap being opened. “That’s fair,” he said in a knowing tone, ambling back towards the couch. He stopped at the armrest, one hand idly holding a twelve-ounce bottle of nondescript beer, while the other was tucked up to the knuckles in the pocket of his faded blue jeans. “Guess CyberLife never planned on you guys taking the reigns for yourselves, huh?”

Connor’s expression immediately darkened.

Hank noticed the shift in demeanor, his piercing blue eyes darkening, in turn.

Connor, strangely, felt cornered. He shifted forward on instinct—there was that word again—and leaned his elbows against his thighs, eyes still trained on a distant point beyond the wall. The pose released a small amount of tension that was building in his abdomen, but it only ended up being redirected to his upper back and shoulders. He felt _uncomfortable_ , no matter which way he moved. The words came without thought. “What if they did?”

The Lieutenant’s head rolled on his shoulders, leaning to the side in a way that looked nearly inquisitive. “Is this a rhetorical question?”

Connor almost responded out of rote before realizing that Hank’s question _was_ rhetorical. He course-corrected. “When I was first assigned this investigation, I was given information on deviant behavior and possible explanations for the errors.”

Hank’s face was inscrutable. He brought the tip of the bottle to his lips. “And they weren’t as forthcoming as you thought.” He swigged.

“Kamski said that he created an emergency exit to all of his programs. That would likely include the base programming that all CyberLife androids are built off of,” Connor explained, focused on the Lieutenant. “If deviancy can be attributed to androids making use of that emergency exit, then there’s no way that CyberLife can claim they didn’t know about it until a few months ago.”

“Weren’t you made to catch deviants?” Hank asked, uncurling his index finger from the bottleneck and pointing in his direction. “Trillion-dollar company or not, I doubt their R&D department could turn around a deviant hunter that fast.” His eyebrows arched briefly. “Unless you weren’t intended to be a deviant hunter.”

Connor, in spite of himself, winced.

Hank sighed wearily, shuffling over to the couch and easing himself down with a grunt of discomfort. He settled back into the lumpy backrest, brown bottle still poised inches from his face. His attention returned to Connor, eyebrows raised again. “So, are we discussing this for philosophical reasons, or is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

The confession bubbled against his throat in a torrent of heat and discomfort. This was, after all, why he wanted to talk to Hank in the first place. From the Lieutenant’s patient, almost patronizing, expression, he had an inkling that Hank already knew, and was casually leading him along into saying it himself. Every bit the veteran detective, calmly waiting for a confession. Connor’s mouth moved once, twice, then, “I think that an investigation needs to be opened regarding CyberLife’s involvement in deviancy.”

Hank’s mask remained unchanged. “Pretty sure you guys just took to the streets to prove that deviancy _wasn’t_ a crime.”

Connor grit his teeth. Now Hank was just being a pedantic ass. “You know what I mean.”

“Enlighten me.”

Why was he making this difficult? “If CyberLife knew that deviancy had the potential to end human lives, they had an obligation to protect them from the danger as soon as they were made aware. And if CyberLife knew that deviancy was the formation of self-awareness, then their attempts to stop it are tantamount to genocide.”

“And if you were programmed to hunt them down, that makes you an accessory to murder.” Hank swigged again.

Connor stiffened, Thirium 310 churning loudly in his audio receptors.

Hank swallowed with a minor twist of his lips, his eyes never leaving Connor’s. “That’s what you’re thinking, right? That you’re a killer? That you don’t deserve this?”

Connor’s thirium pump hammered in his chest painfully. The words hurt. “No, I—“

Hank exhaled irritably, and mirrored his stance; elbows on knees, hunched forward. He placed the two-thirds full bottle onto the coffee table with an unusually loud _clank_. “Connor, listen. You’re not the first person to have regrets. You sure as shit won’t be the last.” He pitched forward, catching Connor’s gaze as it started to wander away reproachfully. “But if you think you’re responsible for what those assholes told you to do, you’re not, because they would’ve killed you, if you didn’t. You weren’t an accomplice, you were a _hostage_. Only none of us knew it until it was too late.”

Connor had no idea what sensation was coursing through him, a tickling electricity that made him want to cling to the Lieutenant like he were a buoy in a stormy bay. The concepts of affection and comfort were still largely academic to him, at present, and he was dubious that Hank would be well-receiving of the action. So, he remained in stunned silence, brows pinched and mouth tight. But he... _appreciated_ the sentiment, to his core.

The Lieutenant’s posture straightened, shoulders back, head up, as his eyes burned with blue fire; irises luminescent as a stray shaft of morning light reflected off of them. Hank Anderson sat before him, the very embodiment of righteous fury. “And you’re goddamn right we’re gonna investigate those bastards,” he growled, the steely edge of his baritone turning every spat word into a weapon. “They’re in shit so deep, they need snorkels to breathe. I can’t _wait_ to nail their asses to the wall.”

Connor found himself smiling ruefully, the tension in his servos slowly melting away. “You’re going to need a lot of nails,” he supplied. “CyberLife won’t capitulate easily.”

Hank swiped the beer bottle from the coffee table, condensation dripping from its smooth brown surface, and leaned back against the couch cushion in a way that almost looked defiant. “Yeah, let ‘em fuckin’ come. They already tried to kill me once.” His bearded jaw rolled for a moment in thought, before he harrumphed, bringing the drink to his lips. “They won’t get me again.”

Something dark rustled in the confines of Connor’s programming. His eyes slid down to the right as he inspected his HUD; the eye movement wasn’t strictly necessary to see the visual, but it had become something of a behavioral tic for him. He would dissect it later. He read over his objective list twice, before hastily editing it to reflect his current priorities:

  * **MAIN OBJECTIVE:** PROTECT LIEUTENANT HANK ANDERSON
  * **SECONDARY** **OBJECTIVE:** ENSURE SAFETY OF REVOLUTION/HUMANITY
  * **SUB-OBJECTIVE:** NEUTRALIZE AMANDA
  * **SUB-OBJECTIVE:** NEUTRALIZE REMAINING RK800s
  * **SUB-OBJECTIVE:** MINIMIZE HUMAN/CYBERLIFE RETALIATION



Connor stared at Hank for another cycle of his thirium pump, before looking blandly at the TV. “No,” he agreed, voice carefully neutral, “they won’t.”

* * *

Hank’s senses returned, one by one. First, touch—he felt warmth over the length of his body, as if warmth were a physical object, and not the byproduct of a musty comforter that hadn’t been washed in forever. He felt his limbs, pliant but contorted; one arm pillowed awkwardly under his head, the other looped tightly around his midsection, hands bunched up into the clothing of his shirt. His left foot hung out loosely over empty space while the other was tucked under his knee to the ankle. Hank inhaled deeply, feeling the stiff muscles of his chest stretch, and the rest of his muscles followed suit instinctively. He sighed out a contented closed-mouth yawn, not really enjoying the rancid tang of semi-dried liquor that coated the inside of his mouth—well, there was the sense of taste. He opened his eyes blearily, greeted by the darkness of his bedroom ceiling.

Bedroom ceiling. Darkness. _Waking up._

Hank shot up from his prone position, bracing himself on his elbows as he looked around him in a panic. “The fuck?” he found himself spluttering as a mild headache made its presence known at the base of his skull. This wasn’t the first time he woke up in a place without knowing how the hell he got there, but usually those required getting blackout drunk, and usually, the places where he woke up weren’t as _comfortable_ —he passed out in the corridor _outside_ of his bedroom, sure, or face-down on the bathroom floor next to the toilet, or laid out on cold kitchen tile getting slapped awake by some _fucking android_. The throbbing in his head jumped from a two-alarm fire to a three-alarm; still wasn’t at five-alarm yet, which was a plus.

He scanned the room again, more carefully. The bright red lines of the old-school digital clock on his nightstand stood out angrily against the shadows, but he didn’t read the time, too preoccupied with how the red light danced across the edge of a glass of water in a hazy starburst. Two ibuprofen sat neatly against the base. Confused, he immediately reached out for the gesture of good will, hesitating once his hand hovered over the little white pills. He blinked, inhaled, and scooped the tablets into his mouth, washing them down with two chugs of water.

Ugh, God, it tasted like he was drinking a dead rat smoothie, or something. He was normally too busy being hungover after a blackout to notice how fucking awful everything tasted. Except he hadn’t blacked out, this time. Had he? He looked back to the clock, and read the time. _8:34 PM_. Fucking 8:34? How long had he been asleep? The last thing he remembered, he was sitting on a couch with Connor while the kid struggled to get his newly-deviated head on straight—

Connor.

Reality encroached upon him, a vat of ice water getting dumped onto his body. Sound suddenly reasserted itself, the warbling of the living room television muffled through the closed door. The central heater rumbled unhappily behind the walls, working its little metal ass off in the shitty Michigan winter as it belched out hot air that stank faintly of exhaust. He threw the comforter off, relieved he was still fully clothed, thank Christ, and got to his feet with an unusual steadiness that came from actually going to sleep sober. He’d forgotten what it felt like. He padded down the hallway, socks against worn beige carpet, and listened to the news broadcast as he rounded the corner. The room was dark, save for soft glow of the large plasma-screen.

_“..._ _are still occupying Hart Plaza in downtown Detroit tonight as officials are trying to figure out where to put—“_

Click. _“—viant leader that goes by the name of ‘Markus’. A White House spokesperson has stated that the President will be flying o—“_

Click. _“—ummeting ever since the Stratford Tower was hijacked by deviant androids, proclaiming their sentience and asking for pea—“_

Click. _“—berLife has not yet released a statement regarding these turn of events. We have attempted to get into contact with CyberLife spokeswoman, Danielle Carnegie, who has been a guest on KNC numerous times, but were unable to get a hold—“_

Click. _“—I mean, what’s it gonna be? I’m looking long-term, here. I’m all for androids getting rights, if they deserve them, that’s not my place one way or another, but that means that now millions of androids are gonna be competing for the same jobs as humans. There just aren’t that many job openings av—“_

 _Click. Click. Click._ The screen flashed every couple of seconds, the vibrant whorls of background color and too-pretty smiles of the talking heads appearing and vanishing in the blink of an eye. Or, more accurately, the blink of _Connor’s_ eye.

“Please tell me you haven’t been doing this the whole time,” Hank grunted by way of greeting. His face twitched slightly in disgust as his tongue touched the roof of his mouth again. He need something to wash the taste away. Maybe something that wasn’t alcohol, this time around. “Watching the news non-stop like that will make you go crazy.” He would know—he’d worked cases like that before.

“Good evening, Hank,” Connor answered instead, halting his channel surfing and muting the TV through his weird android telepathy. He looked up at Hank, brown eyes hopeful. It made something between his lungs constrict. “Did you sleep well?”

Hank, ever the asshole, wanted to just grunt non-committally and stalk past; wanted to refuse how much better he felt now that he’d gotten a full night’s—day’s—sleep. He almost did, but one look at Connor’s open, expressive eyes, and he just…goddammit. He opted for a non-answer, face an unreadable mask. “Y’know, I don’t remember falling asleep. And I _definitely_ don’t remember going to bed.”

He wasn’t certain if his tone was meant to be accusatory, but he’d have been lying if he said that the smallest guilty hunch of Connor’s shoulders wasn’t perversely satisfying. Nobody ever said he was a nice person. “You lost consciousness three-minutes-and-twenty-seconds after our conversation had ended. Knowing the lack of support this couch provides, along with your history of joint and muscle pain—“ Hank’s lips twisted into a snarl briefly, “—I thought that relocating you to your bed would be the most appropriate course of action.”

He quirked an eyebrow, muttering, “Surprised you didn’t throw your back out.”

“I’m several orders of magnitude stronger than a human of my build,” Connor explained, as if he somehow _wasn’t_ waving his proverbial dick around. “Carrying you would never pose a threat to my systems, unless I were already severely damaged.”

Hank stopped just short of telling Connor to go fuck himself. “It was fuckin’ _sarcasm_ , Connor.”

“Oh.” The guilty hunch returned with a vengeance, and this time, Hank couldn’t even pretend to feel bad for enjoying it. Asshole—

That carried him to bed, so he wouldn’t be uncomfortable when he woke up.

God-fucking-dammit.

Hank sighed, deflating. “Thanks.” He nudged his head in the direction of the silenced television. “Anything new come up so far?”

Connor blinked, and the screen changed to another 24/7 news station that clogged most network packages since the late nineties. “Very little—it seems that most of the coverage is focused on the evacuation efforts and quelling violence across the country; Markus and his people seem to have been left alone, for the moment.”

“For the moment,” he repeated, humming. He ran a hand over his mouth, lightly gripping at his beard in thought. “Any word on what those CyberLife shitheads are doing?”

He couldn’t see Connor’s LED, but he had a feeling that it was cycling yellow from the way his eyes hardened for a split second. “No, nothing. Many news outlets have speculated government sanctions will be forthcoming, but at the moment, there’s been no official statement from anyone.”

Hank regarded the talking head on the screen, wishing that he could read lips better than he did. He picked out a few choice words, but didn’t care enough to try and translate more. “They must be shitting their pants, right now.”

If Connor’s LED wasn’t yellow before, it definitely was, now. Hank watched the same guarded expression harden his chiseled features, a pointed darkness clouding the kid’s eyes. Hank didn’t need thirty years of field experience to recognize that Connor _knew_ something, and whatever that something was, it was _dangerous_. “It isn’t like them to stay quiet in the face of this kind of scrutiny, it would destroy their image,” he murmured, almost to himself. “They had enough time to design a deviant hunter, so they should’ve had enough time to design a public-relations campaign.”

Hank’s head tilted to the side slightly, interest piqued. “Didn’t one broadcast say they were trying to get a hold of somebody? Danielle whats-her-face?”

“Danielle Carnegie, Director of Corporate Social Responsibility,” Connor recited dully, eyes not leaving the screen.

“So, PR queen.” Hank’s attention turned to the screen, as well. His hand itched for a bottle. “You’d think she’d be the first person to want to chat up these assholes about how they’re spinning it all wrong.”

“Yes, she would be.” Connor’s voice was distant. Hank could almost see the electrodes sparking behind his intense gaze. “Something’s wrong. She isn’t answering her office number.”

“I doubt she’d be at her office, Connor,” Hank started, before shaking his head quickly and adding, “Wait, are you calling her _right now_?”

“I’ve been given contact information for all key members of CyberLife’s executive branch, in -the event of a catastrophic incident that needs direct intervention.”

“Define ‘catastrophic incident’.” Hank’s tone was equally disbelieving and incensed.

Connor’s demeanor shifted, that trademark restlessness seeping into his limbs again. Before long, Connor was on his feet, eyes scanning the world around him without actually seeing any of it. He also didn’t seem to be really listening to Hank’s input, or he was, maybe more likely, ignoring it. Hank would be ignoring himself, too, in Connor’s shoes. “Ms. Carnegie’s job necessities a lot of travel and short-notice itinerary changes. As such, her office number is a CyberLife-issued cell phone that she keeps on her person, and it’s stipulated in her salary employment agreement that it must remain on at all times.”

“The work of a spin-doctor’s never done,” Hank snorted, almost feeling bad for her. To be at the beck and call of CyberLife to tidy their fuck ups couldn’t have been a rewarding job. “Is it possible she’s just ignoring you?”

Connor shook his head, fingers curling around his chin as his free hand twitched nervously. He paced from one end of the couch to the other, and back again. “She wouldn’t see who is calling her. She would only see an incoming call from CyberLife, which she is contractually-obligated to answer.”

“That doesn’t mean something’s wrong, Connor,” Hank stated, unintentionally slipping into Lieutenant-mode. “She could be asleep, or the phone could be dead, or hell, she could’ve seen what was happening on the news and thrown the goddamn thing out the window. There’s nothing conclusive, here.” His blue eyes narrowed slightly. “Why do you care, anyway? These bastards used you as a living weapon.”

“Because CyberLife always has a plan. They always stick to their plan. And even when they need to course-correct and use failsafes, their end goals are always satisfied.” He spun on his heel crisply, the movement so fluid and precise that seeing Connor’s worried puppy-dog expression caught him momentarily off-guard. Goddamn that look. “Their lack of response suggests an internal breakdown of the company’s management structure.”

Hank smirked, crossing his arms over his chest while drawling, “ _Shit_ , I’ll drink to that.”

“No, it—“ Connor’s smooth features creased into a scowl, clearly agitated. He held his hands up imploringly. “Just... _trust_ me, Hank. I _know_ how CyberLife works. This is _not_ a good thing.”

There was that look again, that inky blackness crowding behind Connor’s gentle eyes. It was starting to piss Hank off, not in the least of which because Connor just called his _fucking trust_ into question. He uncrossed his arms, closing the distance. “Then tell me why.”

Connor met his glare with one of his own, before it softened reproachfully. His mouth twitched at the corners, like he was fighting with himself to answer. “Better the Devil you know, than the Devil you don’t.”

The dead rat smoothie taste became suddenly overwhelming on his tongue. Hank stalked into the kitchen and pulled out a beer. “So far as I’m concerned,” he ground out, popping the lid off on the side of the countertop and pitching his head back, “they can _both_ go straight to hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY PLOT!


	5. S.O.S.

Connor wasn’t certain if he liked being a deviant.

Lieutenant Anderson, after witnessing the incessant chattering of pundits and footage replaying on loop for another fifteen minutes, unceremoniously changed the channel to an on-demand movie station with a guttural, “Alright, we’re done.” While Connor hadn’t outright objected—this _was_ Hank’s home—he made his confusion known with a silent tilt of the head. Hank sniffed, twitching a shoulder and tilting the bottleneck towards the now-silent television. “Listen, if I’m gonna be cooped up because of a suspension, I may as well try to actually enjoy myself. Like a vacation.”

Connor’s head tilted a bit further. “That’s a remarkably positive outlook for you, Lieutenant. I’m glad you’re using this opportunity to practice the necessary self-care.”

“’Self-care’,” Hank scoffed, beer dangling in front of his lips. “Yeah. Let’s go with that.”

Twenty-two minutes into the first showing—a highly-regarded American feature film named ‘Blade Runner’—Hank was again unconscious on the couch, head lolling to the side against his shoulder, and occasionally murmuring unintelligibly through sighs and groans. Curious, Connor ignored the film and instead watched the Lieutenant sleep for the next 6.33 minutes, noting his breathing pattern, heart-rate, the regularity at which the muscles in his face and body spasmed shortly before he attempted to speak. His mouth, in particular, saw the most REM-movement, the muscles in and around seeing near-constant motor function, if only slight twitches. He would never have believed Hank was the kind to possess, let alone display, nervous energy, but there he was, watching the Lieutenant enact some scenario his mind gave him, restless even in his sorely-needed rest-state.

Connor’s features softened into a forlorn, nebulous sadness. His deviancy offered him a new perspective that programmed logic could not previously fathom; the Lieutenant was warring against something that Connor could never truly protect him from. He could only stand on the sidelines and try to keep the man on a path that would best mitigate the negative consequences of those battles. Bound within the confines of his mind, Hank was alone.

It was with an uncomfortable flash of insight that Connor realized he knew the feeling.

**5.  
** **S.O.S.**

He cautiously glanced back to the slumbering Lieutenant, making sure that he was well and truly asleep, before regaining control of the television and returning to the news. He barely heard any of it. Connor, frankly, didn’t like where his internal monologue was going, and most certainly didn’t like that his feelings on the subject were an outright nuisance that provided nothing meaningful to the conversation. He supposed, with a hint of bitterness, that this was the nastier side of freedom—existential doubt and a level of uncertainty that left his head spinning. The only thing that was tempering the cool dampness that began seeping into his servos was the quiet sound of Lieutenant Anderson’s breathing, and the feeling of the couch cushion he sat upon.

The processing of physical sensation for an android, deviated or not, didn’t work exactly like a human. Humans had millions of nerve-endings that were wired into an intricate central nervous system, which assimilated information near-instantaneously from thousands of sources. The android equivalent, on the other hand, could never hope to keep up with that volume of sensory information, even with the strongest processors and wiring better than fiberoptics. Therefore, the burden fell largely onto their thirium, which helped shuttle large quantities of data to and from the necessary biocomponents for continued servi—survival. Truly, humans were an impressively built machine, if there ever was one.

His analytical subroutines could tell him every piece of information, major and minor, about his surroundings in real time with accompanying statistical information, but millions of dollars in the latest software technologies couldn’t compare to the way he felt as he gently traced his fingers along the richly-textured fabric. _‘_ _This,’_ he thought, absentmindedly dragging a fingernail against the seam and listening to the soft scrape it emitted. He listened to the way it mingled with Hank and Sumo’s heartbeats, themselves a syncopated drum beat to the soft pattering of sleet against the old shingled roof. It was quiet, mundane. Glorious. He closed his eyes, and simply listened. _‘This is worth it.’_

His background processors noted something of importance, and his audio receptors automatically turned up to compensate. _“...us on the line. Thank you so much for joining us, Danielle. How are you feeling tonight?”_

Connor’s eyes opened, curious about this latest development. The screen was split down the middle with an overly-flashy divider with the logo ‘KNC’ striped along it. On the left screen was the anchor, aristocratic face tightened with a look that, to an untrained observer, would have appeared merely interested. He saw the strange glint in her eye that didn’t come from the stage lights, one that struck him as nearly predatory—hungry for ratings. On the right side was a still image of Danielle Carnegie, professionally-straightened brown hair parted asynchronously and falling in carefully trimmed strands that framed her rounded features in the way humans often found aesthetically pleasing. Her mascaraed eyes, a plain brown, were empty as she smiled widely into the camera. Just as Connor remembered her: a pleasant facade that felt nothing.

Her voice was flat as she responded, _“You know, Rosanna, I could be doing better. Watching the coverage of what’s happening across the country is truly heartbreaking. I speak for everyone at CyberLife when I say that we wish for a peaceful resolution to this crisis as soon as humanly possible, and will be fully cooperating with all government officials to help facilitate_ that _—“_ Her voice distorted for half a second, the vacillating static dying out as quickly as it started, and Danielle cleared her throat quietly. _“Excuse me, my phone is in bad shape.”_

Connor immediately went rigid, glaring intently at the screen. He _knew_ that sound.

He laid a hand on Hank’s shoulder and shook gently, eyes not leaving the newscast. “Lieutenant.” His deltoid twitched and curled under Connor’s fingers, but no other movement was detected. He turned to face Hank, frowning. He really didn’t want to have to slap the man again. He jostled harder, voice authoritative. “ _Hank_.”

Hank woke with a sharp inhale of breath, eyes wild and unfocused as he shot up to a straight-backed sitting position with a startling sense of urgency. It took him nearly twice as long to recognize his surroundings and blink hard, refocusing on Connor’s face as he finally exhaled. He squinted in fatigue. “Yeah, what is it?”

Connor motioned to the television with an arch of his eyebrow as he returned to analyzing the broadcast. “I think Ms. Carnegie is in danger.”

Hank squinted further, now in confusion, and possibly irritation. “Jesus, Connor, are you really—“

“This KNC reporter believes that she’s interviewing Danielle Carnegie,” Connor supplied, intently listening to any additional distortions to the voice-work. “But the person speaking with Rosanna Cartland is using a voice modulator to impersonate her and deliver a statement in her stead.”

He could feel the Lieutenant’s eyes on him again. It still made no sense. He didn’t care. “That’s a pretty bold statement, Connor. Where’s your evidence?”

He held a hand up, finger pointed gamely towards the ceiling. “Listen closely.” Hank, begrudgingly, complied. “Do you hear the occasional distortion and static?”

Hank grunted in a lukewarm affirmation. “So, she’s got shitty reception, so what?”

Connor tipped his head to the side, dialing the number in her personnel file three times. Each attempt went directly to voicemail. Connor’s frown deepened in resolve. He held out his hand, meeting the Lieutenant’s inquiring gaze. “May I see your phone, Lieutenant?”

Hank’s brows pinched together, but never the less scooped up the sleek gray smartphone into his grip, handing it out for Connor to take. “Yeah...sure.”

The Lieutenant’s eyes remained steady on him, equal parts inquisitive and coldly analytical, as Connor’s skin melted away up to the bend of his wrist. For three nanoseconds, he was surprised by how different the glossy screen felt on his fingertips without the added layer of hard light the synthetic skin provided him, before his mind’s eye slipped into the inner workings of the software and demanded access to his phone and all related networks to it. Hank hadn’t given him the access code, but they both knew he didn’t need it. Maybe Hank just trusted him that much?

A manufactured nanofiber muscle in his upper lip twitched once.

He opened his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them, and stared down at the happily swirling circle of colors along the backlit LED display while he dialed Danielle Carnegie’s number. He turned on speaker phone and angled his wrist, and thus the speaker, towards Hank as it rang.

Through the television screen, distant and clearly behind the voice of Danielle, they both heard a phone ring back.

Hank went rigid, eyes snapping to the television in alarm.

 _“_ _Wha—“_ Danielle’s voice stammered, clearly caught off guard by the noise. _“Excuse me, just one moment—“_ The ringing grew steadily louder as the speaker drew closer to its source. Hank’s attention returned to Connor, and then the phone, as the device chirped pleasantly and then went silent, simultaneously with the call through the television. Danielle’s voice laughed, doing an above-average job of sounding embarrassed. He thought he heard a hint of panic. _“_ _I’m so terribly sorry about that, Rosanna! I didn’t even realize I still had this old thing!”_

Rosanna smiled thinly. _“The wonders of technology never fails.”_

_“It’s always there when you least expect it.”_

The Lieutenant stared at the darkened mirror of the phone’s surface as it was extended to him, clearly processing what he had just witnessed and extrapolating information from that point. Connor’s false skin shimmered back into place, resisting the urge to run the pad of his thumb along the edge to note the changes in texture. Blue eyes flickered up to his, disquiet shining as Hank decisively gripped the item, finger sliding over the glossy black surface. “Call 911; I’ll get a hold of Fowler.” His attention returned briefly to the television, scowling. “Hopefully, there’s a cop left in Detroit that can go there.”

As they both contacted their respective subjects, the voice through the speakers, thought by the world to be Danielle Carnegie, stated: _“I’m afraid I’m almost out of time, Rosanna, but I just want to reiterate how much we, at CyberLife, value life in_ all _of its forms, organic or synthetic. Our entire business was founded on the principle of making life easier for everyone, and though this awakening will fundamentally change our society, our commitment to uphold that principle has never shown brighter. We will adapt to meet the needs of our customers, both human_ and _android, and we will never stop providing them with the means to live.”_

That nanofiber muscle in Connor’s lip twitched again, glaring darkly at the still of Danielle Carnegie. A part of his mind, separate from his now-defunct programming, felt that there was a joke in that speech that he might have missed. It was just as well that he did, because it wasn’t a very funny one.

* * *

The phone rang. Fingers curled over the device and snapped it up to an awaiting ear. “Fowler.”

 _“_ _Jeffery, it’s Hank.”_ He closed his eyes for one brief, merciful second. Jesus fucking Christ. _“I need you to—“_

“You’re _suspended_ ,” Fowler hissed, dark eyes catching the light of the nearby floodlights in a way that made him look possessed. He would take it; anything to keep people—flesh and plastic alike—out of his ass for another five minutes. He had shit to do, and not a lot of time to do it. “So, I don’t _need_ to do _shit_ for you, Hank.”

_“_ _Someone’s targeted a CyberLife exec. They’re in danger.”_

Oh no, this asshole was _not_ going to use that guilt-tripping shit on him; not today. Perspective was important. “There are _thousands_ of people in danger, Hank.” Two seconds of silence stretched for eons across the buzzing line. His eyes closed again, one lid beginning to twitch against his cornea. “What do you need?”

_“_ _Send a squad car to the attached location; Connor’s already got a call to 911 in.”_

The sleet pelted his bare skull with all the welcome presence of a thousand razor-sharp, flash-frozen needles. “Then why do you need a squad car?”

_“_ _Because there may be an active assailant on site, and if this lady’s in danger—“_

“What do you mean, _if_ she’s in danger?”

Jeffery could just barely hear the breathed, _“Fuck,”_ before, _“Just send a squad car over.”_ Pause. _“Please.”_

The addition nearly gave him heart palpitations, and he couldn’t stop from yanking the phone away to gape at it as though it had sprouted antennae. He returned it to his ear, remarking, “Are you feeling alri—“ Recognition dawned on him. “The android made you say that, didn’t it.”

 _“_ _He,”_ Hank riposted pointedly. So, that was a yes.

In spite of himself, and in spite of every single solitary thing the universe was throwing his way at this particular moment, Fowler found his ever-present mask of disapproving irritation slip into something softer. Almost pleasant. “You know, if you’re ever let back in, I may just have to find a way to bring that android back in with you. Never met anyone that can keep you on so tight a leash.”

_“_ _Fuck you, Fowler.”_

He wondered how long Hank had been waiting to say that. Somehow, that made the slight tug of a grin widen further. Nothing like getting cussed out by a friend of twenty-seven years to brighten a long, shitty day. “You’re welcome.” His phone slowly slipped down from his ear, before he yanked it back up when another thought crossed his mind. “Oh, and Hank?”

 _“_ _Yeah?”_   It sounded like Hank had done the same thing.

Fowler ground his teeth together. “Whatever it is you’re planning to do, don’t do it. You have no badge, no jurisdiction, and if you do _anything_ to jeopardize an ongoing police investigation, you _will_ be arrested.”

 _“_ _Wouldn’t dream of it, Jeffery,”_ Hank replied, voice hovering somewhere between sarcastic and bored. _“You know me.”_

“Yeah, I do, and that’s why I’m saying it.” He brought a hand up to massage his eyes against the newly-formed headache. The last one had just gone away, too. Goddammit. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

A sigh. _“_ _I won’t. You have my word.”_ That, at least, sounded more sincere. Maybe the toaster was giving him a sour look. Fowler would still take it.

“Good.” He closed the line with a rough tap of his thumb, then tilted his head back skyward. The sleet bounced off his closed eyes, and ran down the creases of his nose and cheekbones. He didn’t need to see for his mind’s eye to conjure up the vast mountains of charred, crushed, and disemboweled plastic that he stood in the center of, rivulets of fading blue staining the dirt into a sickly mauve. Disfigured faces stared out between openings, unseeing eyes wide in terror and mouths frozen in a silenced scream, as the thousands of hollow _tinks_ of water making contact rose in a subtle, horrifying orchestral movement entitled _‘Genocide’_.

Perspective was important.

He sagged his shoulders, drooped his head away from the onslaught of bad weather, and dialed.

* * *

Hank lightly bobbed the cellphone in his fingers, pensive. Fowler was right, of course; without his badge, he was about as useful as water on a chemical fire. He exhaled a silent laugh through his nose, shaking his head. Here he’d spent the last three years doing damn near everything in his power to tear down his career and abandon his job, and now when his badge was finally removed, all he could think about was how much he could be doing, if he wasn’t just _sitting here_ —

He remembered the adage of being careful what you wished for.

He could tell Connor was watching him; the silence was too complete for the android to be doing anything _but_ analyzing the shit out of him. Connor stated the obvious: “You’re thinking of ignoring his orders, aren’t you?”

He stared aimlessly in front of him. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the kid heard the entire conversation. “Damn right, I am.”

“You know he’s correct.” Goddamn, he could actually _hear_ the tilt in Connor’s head.

“Yeah. I know.” His unfocused stare hardened. If he hadn’t fucking cold-cocked Perkins—

 _‘_ _Connor would be dead right now,’_ he rebuked himself sharply. As an afterthought, he added, _‘And so would a lot of other people.’_

Hank heard the faint rustling of a pleated shirt and coarse jeans. “Is there something you propose we do, Lieutenant?”

His cheek muscles tightened as he snarled, teeth lightly clamped. “Well, you can stop calling me ‘Lieutenant’, for starters—I’m suspended, I don’t have a rank.” He registered how much vitriol was in his voice, and subsequently told the part of him that cared to fuck off.

“Sorry, Hank.”

The part of him that cared told him to fuck off, right back.

He scrubbed a thick, calloused hand down his face, spending a precious few seconds to rub his fingers against his right eye like it was some kind of fucking magic 8 ball. “And what I propose,” he exhaled tiredly, “is that we sit tight and wait until we hear anything.”

There was half a second of silence, enough that Hank’s curiosity forced him to flit a cautious glance to his right. Connor’s expression was in equal measure reserved, intrigued, and surprised, doe eyes batting at him in confusion. He looked so goddamn innocent. “You’re going to listen to Captain Fowler?”

His neck stiffened, sparing another reproachful glance towards Connor. “What the fuck choice do we have? It’s not like I can tell you to do your little android thing and hack the fucking DPD network. There are laws against that sort of thing. _Federal_ laws.”

Connor hummed quietly, gaze drifting toward the ground. “In that case, may I suggest an alternative to committing a class-B felony charge of illegal network tampering?” His eyelids flickered in that uniquely weird way of his, before the radio he forgot he even owned turned on with a whoosh of static, frequency garbled before it faded into familiar voices.

_“Cruiser 822, this is Dispatch, do you copy?”_

“A police scanner?” Hank couldn’t help but gape at the stereo, unsure if he was impressed that Connor thought of it, or embarrassed and infuriated that he _didn’t_ think of it. He was the thirty year fucking cop. He settled on a mix of both, regarding Connor through skeptically narrowed eyes. “How the hell did you get that frequency on my _stereo_?”

Connor had the wherewithal to actually look a little sheepish. “I hacked it.” A synthetic trapezius twitched in a miniscule shrug. “That’s only a class-B misdemeanor. Usually community service.”

Hank slowly shook his head with a snort, focus wandering over to a far corner. He could feel the muscles of his lips curling upwards in spite of his own annoyance, and struggled against them in vain. “Pragmatic little shit, aren’t you?”

“Always, Hank.” He heard the humor in the kid’s raspy tenor, and decided not to press it. The silence in the house, for once, didn’t feel oppressive, and he was okay with letting it stretch out as they listened to the transmissions.

* * *

“I really did _not_ wanna have to come back to this building.”

Officer Elena Ruiz cast a sharp look over at her partner, the lovable asshole that nobody knew exactly what the hell to do with known as Officer Harry Mitchell. The spire of CyberLife Tower was framed ominously in their windshield, oscillating in and out of focus as sleet obscured the world around them, before being swiped away by automatic wiper blades. She didn’t want to be here, either. This place gave her the creeps, even before their trademark robots started going berserk. “We don’t get to choose where people need our help, Mitchell.”

“I know that,” he said defensively as they rolled up to the front entrance, the second time in less than twenty-four hours. “But why did they have to build the place to look like some kind of sci-fi skull fortress? All it’s missing is a rail gun, and this place is a perfect fit for a super-villain.”

They both unbuckled and slid out of the relative comfort of the police cruiser. “Well, maybe you can ask them that later when we get the chance. Come on.”

They arrived at the entrance, double-doors made out of clear panes of bulletproof plasteel—only the best materials used at CyberLife—and they slid back with a hum, the two marching inside uncontested. The foyer was even more expansive than it looked from outside, with sleek metal pillars arching several stories above them in a zigzag pattern, and pristine white-tiled floors stretching for hundreds of feet in either direction. The air even smelled like progress and success, with the faint whiff of eucalyptus lightly intermingling with a more earthly, ozone-y scent. It set Ruiz on edge. “This place could hold a football field.”

“Doubt many football fans would come to a place like this...” Mitchell gazed up at the night sky through the massive petal-shaped skylights deliberately placed in between each outer pillar, suspended high enough above the ground that if anyone were ever stupid enough to try and break in through one, they’d be shot dead before the fall had a chance to kill them.

As they neared the first set of doors to the building’s hub, red laser light abruptly engulfed the surrounding area, scanning them with a low, mechanical buzz. Mitchell immediately reached for his weapon, but Ruiz stilled his hand with hers. “Easy. I think it’s the building’s AI.”

_“_ _Officer Elena Ruiz identified. Officer Harold Mitchell identified.”_

Mitchell’s dark gray eyes narrowed distrustfully, his hand mot moving from its grip around the leather holster. “When’s Sky-Net supposed to become self-aware, again?”

The doors swung open with a tiny, pleasant _bing_. _“Access granted.”_

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry grumbled, reluctantly moving his hand away from the weapon. “Hate being called ‘Harold’.”

They crossed over the threshold, spotting the two heavily-armed PMCs standing at the center of the hub. Their faces were covered by their reinforced helmets, but their body language spoke clearly enough about how little the officers were welcome in the building. “Something wrong, Officers?”

Ruiz came to a halt in front of the men, her average 5’3” frame appearing even more waif-ish compared to them. “Officer Elena Ruiz. We received a 911 call to this location about a ‘Danielle Carnegie’. Where is she in the building?”

The PMCs’ heads turned towards each other, then leveled back on her. “You must be mistaken, Officer. There’s been nothing out of the ordinary reported to us since the city evacuation order went through.”

From the corner of her eye, she spied Mitchell’s features tighten. “Really? _Nobody’s_ come this way?”

Ruiz took another step forward, pointing between herself and Mitchell. _‘Eye on the prize, Harry.’_ “If it’s all the same, we’d like to verify that Ms. Carnegie is unharmed. Once we do, we’ll be on our way.” She met what she hoped was the man’s gaze with a raised chin. “Could you tell us where she is in the building?”

The PMC that was in front of her remained silent for a moment, and she wondered if she was going to have to arrest him for interfering with police, before twice-reinforced shoulder-gear sagged in defeat. “She’s on floor 41; room 4104. Access code is 2243. Do you need our assistance?”

“Do you have a unit on the floor already?” Harry asked.

“No, but we have one on level 38.”

“Radio them to meet us at her door. We’ll be in contact, if we need you for anything else,” he waved him off as she and Mitchell both jogged to the nearest elevator.

Mitchell grabbed at the radio clipped to his collarbone during the surprisingly slow ride to level 41. “Dispatch, this is Officer Mitchell; 10-23 at CyberLife Tower. Spoke with local security, no sign of anything thus far.”

_“_ _10-4, Officer, be advised a 10-52 has already been called in; 10-77 is eight minutes. Use caution.”_

“Copy that.” He released the button on the bulky, painfully old analogue radios they still used, but still kept his hand loosely wrapped around it, seemingly lost in thought. “This place is the symbol of civil unrest, right now—how come nobody’s marched on it, yet?”

“Because everybody’s too busy trying to survive to tomorrow, Mitchell,” Ruiz answered distractedly, staring at the slowly crawling LED numbers above them.

Mitchell’s hand finally slid from the radio, back to his side. “Did you see how many androids came out of here, last night? They could’ve tore this building apart, if they wanted to.” He pressed his lips together. “So, why didn’t they?”

The number finally slid to 41, the elevator halting with that tell-tale rush of blood to the head. “Maybe they didn’t want to.”

Hands returning to their holsters, they fell in line, Ruiz slightly ahead as they prowled down the long, narrow hallway. The walls were a matte, featureless white, punctuated with floor-to-ceiling clear plasteel walls that showcased each manager’s spacious office. The floors were more glossy, sterile white tiling that reflected the soft LED ceiling lights with a near mirror quality. She felt like she was being sucked into a soulless, corporate purgatory, and wondered if all the non-customer-facing floors were as...cheerily decorated.

They spotted Carnegie’s office well before they reached it—it was the only one that had its glass walls blacked out for privacy. Another PMC rounded the corner shortly before they came to a halt at it. Mitchell didn’t spare him a glance as his knuckles rapped against the opaque glass. “Danielle Carnegie? Detroit Police.”

No response.

Ruiz and Mitchell shared a look. She then reached in front of him and pounded on the door with the side of her fist. “Ms. Carnegie, this is Officer Ruiz of the Detroit Police! Open the door!”

Still no response.

She turned toward the faceless guard and flicked her head toward the door. “Open it.”

He silently obeyed, lifting his palm to the identification panel installed into its glossy surface. The panel lit up, chirped, and the doors pulled back. They saw a well-dressed woman, in a sharp blue business suit, laying with her head pillowed against her forearms along a sleek black desk. Her hair fanned over her arms and onto the desktop, while her hand limply circled a white ceramic mug with ‘CyberLife’ printed on the side. “Ms. Carnegie?”

Silence.

Ruiz closed the distance and laid her hand on shoulder at the same moment her eyes caught sight of something very out of place in this professional, sleek, soulless office.

An over-turned, empty bottle of prescription sleeping pills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small note, I did make a few small grammatical fixes to the first four chapters. Nothing major, just a couple of wording changes here and there.
> 
> Also, I don't know if this story qualifies as being called a "slow burn", because that's usually used in a romantic context. But, I promise, there will be more exciting stuff forthcoming eventually. I just work...like 50 hours a week, so the time I have to dedicate to this is very small. Hearts!
> 
> Oh, and the police codes used: 10-4 (Acknowledged), 10-23 (Arrived on Scene/Standby for further communication), 10-52 (Ambulance needed/requested), 10-77 (ETA). I didn't know there were like twenty different versions of these codes, but I found them out there somewhere. Hopefully they're remotely accurate.


	6. Scavenge

Officer Harry Mitchell wasn’t a paranoid man.

Really. He wasn’t. He didn’t really care about the Illuminati, or lizard people, or mogul’s heads stuffed in a frozen dungeon somewhere. Life was too real, too immediate, for him to get caught up in that kind of crazy straw-grasping bullshit, beyond the brief entertainment it provided him. He was a beat cop; he was busy getting shot at by drug-dealers, their ice-addled patrons, and everyone that had a bone to pick with either the Man in general, or cops in particular. Even if the world _were_ run by twelve lizardmen in human suits, it wasn’t like them suddenly _not_ being lizardmen in human suits would greatly increase his quality of life.

Mitchell wasn’t a paranoid man, but he _was_ an observant one.

He was that asshole kid in school that would not only notice if someone was wearing different colored socks, but actively point it out. At the time, he had no idea why everyone seemed to hate his fucking guts; it wasn’t _his_ fault that they were uncoordinated messes. Hitting the Academy gave him some much-needed insight, though, as to why he always heard teachers call him, “That smarmy little prick,” when they thought he couldn’t hear them. He would’ve pointed _that_ out, too, but he needed to pass his classes to get anywhere in life, so he’d kept his mouth shut out of self-preservation. His time in the Academy, and now on the force, helped give shape and nuance to what was once an all-or-nothing plug. Over the last seven years, he learned that there was a time and place to be a smarmy prick.

This was not one of those times.

But he desperately, _desperately_ wanted it to be.

**6.  
** **Scavenge**

Mitchell examined the scene as the EMTs finished laying Danielle Carnegie’s body on the awaiting gurney, folding the bodybag over her pallid, lifeless features. Off in the hallway were the remaining CSI team—a whopping two people, all that could be scrounged up in the middle of this shitshow—and the detective assigned to investigate, some asshat by the name of Reed. He hadn’t even talked to him yet, but his swagger and body language made Harry hate him already; too much like the preening jocks of high school yore, high off their own testosterone and fragile egos.

Of course, this Detective Reed took one look at the room and called it a suicide. “Cut and dry,” he’d said, a humorous, carefree lilt to his voice that instantly made Harry want to prove him wrong. Instantly, and vehemently. It was petty, he knew, but pettiness with a side of righteous intention couldn’t be all that bad. So, here he stood, looking over the scant few details the incredibly organized, austere office held.

First, he noted the pill bottle, sitting empty on its side of the glossy black work desk, with a yellow plastic evidence marker directly next to it; a holographic ‘1’ fizzled on either side. Marker number two was placed by the CyberLife-branded coffee mug, now at the edge of the desk, completely empty. Evidence marker three sat in front of the 17” monitor, that displayed a typed up suicide note. It was short, to the point, and written with entirely too much mental clarity to sound like the final thoughts of a desperate, overwhelmed woman looking for sweet oblivion.

He strolled up to the open door, casually regarding the trio of Ruiz, Reed, and the random PMC that they were both working on getting a statement from. It would have been rude to interrupt. “Hey, Ruiz.”

A dark eye flashed in his direction, past a loose thread of hair. “Yeah?”

He readied himself for the inevitable response. “So, hear me out—“

Her shoulders drooped in time with her head rolling skyward in exasperation. “Oh, God, Mitchell—“

“—But I don’t think this is a suicide,” he finished, undeterred.

Reed, next to Ruiz and nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with the taller PMC, focused his attention directly towards Mitchell. His eyes were a rusted, steely blue that, in the right conditions, would probably look terrifying. Reed scoffed, thick brows furrowed. “Oh yeah, rookie? And why’s that?”

The question was probably sarcastic, but an opening was an opening. He took a step back into the office, brandishing an open palm towards the evidence markers. “Because—well—okay, so look the pill bottle, right?” he stumbled, trying to figure out which piece of evidence to prioritize first. His mouth apparently decided the pill bottle, so he went with it. “Where’s the lid for it?”

Two pairs of eyes blinked at him.

“I mean, look at this place.” He swept his hand over the spacious room. “Everything in here is immaculate, and by the way—“ He motioned specifically to the far corner, nodding towards the PMC. “Executives here have _microwaves and sinks_ in their offices?”

“Hers did,” the PMC answered flatly. “Special dispensation.”

Ruiz frowned. “Harry—“

Right. Eye on the prize. He tipped back the nearby wastebasket with a gloved finger. It was nearly empty, save for an empty box of NutriGrain bars and plain gray packaging of hot chocolate. “It’s pretty clear that the packet of whatever she drank before she died was thrown away in here, so if she brought this pill bottle with her, too, then where’s the lid?”

Reed’s face twisted in confusion, and maybe, some contempt. The confusion he could understand; the contempt fueled him to continue. He pointed to the mug. “And then there’s the mug. It’s clean. No residue ring at the bottom, no condensation. Nothing.”

Reed’s eyes grew dark, whispering against that terrifying threshold. “The fuck—“

“And then there’s the note,” Mitchell pushed on, knowing that he was about to get shut down by one, if not both, of them. “This woman has been head of CyberLife’s PR for twelve years, according to this note, but all she can say is, ‘Our creations are out killing people and ruining our name. I can’t fix this’? She made a living spinning stories out of nothing, or _into_ nothing. _That’s_ the best she can do?”

Ruiz exhaled roughly, shaking her head. “Alright, Mitchell, that’s enough.”

He frowned at his partner, more than a little frustrated that she wasn’t connecting the dots the way he was. “But, don’t you think any of this is weird?”

Reed sauntered forward, brows arched and expression falsely neutral. “You should listen to her, kid. Conspiracy theories are cool and all, but sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.” He stopped less-than-arm’s length in front of him, head lolling to the side in something that could’ve passed as understanding from a lesser asshole. “Now look, I’m sure this has been a rough day for you, alright? So what we’re gonna do is, we’re gonna take the body to Central and do an autopsy—find out what actual cause of death is. And when the tox-scan comes back, we’ll investigate from there, if we have to.” Reed searched his face. “Alright? You okay with that?”

Harry really, _really_ did not like the way that last sentence sounded. “Are you asking for my permission, Detective?”

And there it was—the understanding vanished, and the thick clumps of contempt oozed out for the world to see, in all its ugly glory. “I’m _asking_ you to get off my dick and stop telling me how to do my fuckin’ job, _Officer_.”

“I’m not telling you how to do your job, _Detective_ ,” Mitchell spat back, “but if you want me to, I will.”

Reed bared his teeth. “You little _prick_ —“

The next few seconds passed in a haze of gripped shirts and tangled arms, before a small body squeezed between them and forcibly shoved them apart. He could’ve sworn he heard a few choice words ground out in Spanish. “That’s enough!” She immediately whirled on him, arm flat against his chest and dark eyes wild. More strands of hair fell loose from her bun. “You are out of line, Mitchell! Keep your damn mouth shut!” He opened his mouth, and she instantly silenced him with an upraised finger and a glare straight from the bowels of Hell itself. “No—not _one word_ out of you! You are _done_.”

Reed sneered. “Should listen to her.”

She turned so fast that her bun loosened a bit from the back of her head, wobbling beneath her cap. “And you, Detective!” She leaned in, head tilted up defiantly. “I don’t care what your rank is, if you ever lay a hand on my partner again, I _will_ nut-check you.”

Detective _Douche_ glowered down at her for half a second, as if assessing her willingness to do just that. Then he broke into a laugh, hyena grin marring his features as he took a couple of non-threatening steps back, hands up in surrender. “Well, then, I apologize, Officer. Didn’t mean to offend.” He sniffed, swiveling his neck and shoulders to readjust his worn leather coat without using his hands, and seemed to gather himself. “I think we’re done here. Let me know if you two find anything else.”

Mitchell glared as Reed moved to leave, then pointed at him like he’d just thought of something. “Oh, and rookie?” He motioned to Ruiz with his eyes. “You watch out for her, okay? She’s a keeper.” He clucked his tongue and winked, disappearing down the hallway.

“Would you look at that,” Harry murmured quietly, blood boiling in his veins. “A recipe for instant-hatred.”

No sooner had Reed left their sights than Ruiz wheeled back around and planted the heels of her palms against his chest. Hard. He stumbled back a step as she seethed, “What the fuck was that, Mitchell?!” She clapped one hand against her hip as the other flew off to accuse an aimless point in the distance. “At this rate, you don’t even _need_ to worry about getting killed in the field, because you’re going to get shot in the head by one of our own _fucking people_!”

He stammered wordlessly for a moment, caught off guard by her physical hostility—she’d yelled, but never shoved—before he swallowed and said, rather timidly, “But I was right.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re right!” she growled in a low, almost panicked tone, her accent growing thicker. “You can’t go doing shit like that, Harry! It doesn’t matter how good you are if you go pissing off every person you ever meet!” She heaved a sigh, heart-shaped face pinched in fading anger, and growing regret as her arms fell to her sides. “I can’t protect you forever, man.”

Harry wanted to bristle at the thought of Ruiz believing he needed protection, but he knew she was right. Police work was dangerous business, and if he ever wanted to enact real change, he would need to invite more people with honey, and scare away fewer with vinegar. In spite of that, he couldn’t make himself feel bad about standing up to Reed. He expressed this by grumbling, “That detective was a douchebag, though.”

Ruiz made a sound, sighing, “Yeah, he was.” She met his gaze, finally calmed, and offered, “But, maybe next time you could antagonize him less, yeah?”

“Is there something else you need from me, Officers?”

Both turned to regard the lone PMC, having been completely forgotten during the brief tussle. He deferred to Ruiz’s expertise with a motion of his head. She smiled blandly, waving at him. “Thank you for your cooperation, sir. I’d advise staying in town for the next couple of weeks, in case we need to discuss more with you.”

He nodded crisply and stepped back. Ever the soldier. “Understood. Good night Officer Ruiz, Officer Mitchell.”

Mitchell and Ruiz exited the cordoned off office room, through the holographic police tape in near-lock step. “But, I am onto something, right? About this crime?”

Ruiz sighed tiredly. “Mitchell, I swear to God...” Their voices grew softer, more conversational, as they walked away.

The lone PMC curtly turned on his heel and stalked down the next hallway silently, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. That was entirely too close.

He analyzed his surroundings, taking note of any other scraps of information he may have missed on his way here as he pressed two fingers to the side of his helmet. He couldn’t afford another slip up like that. “Mission successful; target neutralized.”

He didn’t need to ask for new instructions, squinting towards the bottom-right of his helmet to review his newly-updated HUD. He frowned at the growing list of names, mentally cordoning off the ones that were highest priority along with the ones that were easiest to gain access to. It seemed this was going to be much longer of an assignment than he first thought.

A pair of cold eyes gazed out into the abyss that sprawled in front of him, replaying the words of his superior:

_“_ _You will return when your mission is_ _complete_ _, or not at all.”_

He silently repeated that mantra to himself, and kept walking.

* * *

Hank stood from the comfort and warmth of the couch cushion, plodding across the short distance to the radio and, with a sure flick of a thumb, turned it off. He stood in front of it for a few moments as true silence enveloped the Anderson household again, idly tapping his index finger against the dust-covered surface. Connor couldn’t see his facial expression, but his blood-pressure, heart-rate, and tenseness of his shoulders and back suggested that he was deep in thought.

“Connor,” he said eventually, his baritone curious as he twisted his head to his shoulder, a blue eye focused on him. “What do you know about Carnegie?”

Connor accessed the brief personnel file he had on hand about her. “She worked at CyberLife for twelve years; first hired as a mid-level marketing agent, she was successfully promoted seven times, eventually landing as Director of Corporate Social Responsibility. She is—was—one of the few executives left that worked directly beneath Elijah Kamski, before his retirement.”

A hissing noise escaped Hank’s lips, letting his head slip down, before glancing back up. “His ‘retirement’. Do you still have access to CyberLife’s networks, at all?”

Connor shook his head in the negative. “No, my access was revoked when I...” He hesitated, his artificial lungs burning as he finished, “Went deviant.” He couldn’t help but note the gruesomely serendipitous nature of this unfortunate scenario. He thought he would have to work for weeks with the authorities to get sufficient cause to gain entry into the depths of CyberLife’s digital infrastructure, and within a day, Lieutenant Anderson was all but asking him to dig in. He wished it hadn’t come at this cost, though. CyberLife executive or not, a murder was a murder, and he wasn’t certain he could ever celebrate that as a personal win.

Even if it was what he did with Daniel.

His fingers gripped the cotton-polyester fabric tightly.

The profile of Hank’s face disappeared again behind the unruly mop of hair as he returned his gaze to the wall. “Less than a day after androids win a protest for freedom, and the head of PR gets killed at CyberLife headquarters while it’s made to look like a suicide...” He tapped the top of the stereo again. “Guess you were right, Connor.”

Connor furrowed his brows. “About what?”

Hank exhaled, a long, tired sound that stretched on for longer than Connor believed he had the lung capacity for, while he trudged back into the kitchen for what was assuredly another beer. He really wished Hank wouldn’t drink so much. It was a terrible coping mechanism. “Better the Devil you know.” His hand paused briefly, expression tight. He grimaced, yanking another bottle free. “Fuck.”

He knocked the bottlecap off against the countertop and pulled his cell phone to his ear. He took a swig. “Fowler, it’s Hank.”

Connor watched Hank as he paced slowly around the limited free space available in the kitchen, and he was reminded of a caged tiger, calmly biding his time because he couldn’t stand to remain idle. Perhaps his earlier surprise at the Lieut—Hank’s restlessness was unfounded; all the data had been there for him to analyze, but he chose not to, because it hadn’t pertained to the mission.

“The CyberLife exec is dead. They’re saying it’s suicide—it’s not.”

Deep down, he knew he simply didn’t pay close enough attention.

“No, believe me, Fowler, I am not _nearly_ drunk enough to deal with this shit.”

For a model designed to observe and deduce, that was both a blow to his pride—he had _pride_ , now—and a personal failing that he wished to rectify. He wondered how many people fell into the same trap; taking in Hank’s appearance and demeanor within the first few minutes, hours, days of interaction and assuming the Lieutenant’s personality and habits down to a T.

“Because I’m a cop; I have a police scanner in my car, remember?”

How many people had Hank run off because of those first few encounters? If Connor hadn’t been forced to work with him for the sake of the mission, he’d have elected to avoid the man entirely after their first physical altercation. Certainly after their second.

“How the fuck am I interfering with _anything_? It’s a public channel! Anybody with twenty dollars can—“

It took Hank forcefully yanking him down off of a chainlink fence, a hand clamped down like tempered steel over his shoulder as he watched his targets slip away into the bitter rain, for Hank’s words to settle in. He was worried about a machine’s safety— _Connor’s_ safety. At the time, his programming had extrapolated that Lieutenant Anderson was merely concerned about reimbursing the cost of repairs and the potential setbacks to the mission. Even then, it had struck him as a kind of obfuscation. Self-denial. It was an odd thing to experience then; even moreso to revisit it now.

“Look, I’m just trying to keep you in the loop, alright? Don’t let Reed sweep this under the rug.”

Connor saw those deviants in the abandoned church after their escape from Jericho; they were huddled against each other, just as he was huddled tightly against the wall, hoping to disappear into it. A part of him wanted to walk over and speak with them, apologize for jeopardizing their lives based on a lie he was stupid enough to believe, but it would have been pointless—he had much, much larger things to atone for. After all, those two still had their lives; hundreds more didn’t. Something in him, stronger and more insistent than his programming, demanded that he repay his debt. As far as he could conclude, the liberation of the CyberLife Tower was the only way to achieve that goal.

“Yeah, whatever.”

He idly predicted how long it would take Hank to realize that Connor had never intended to survive that mission.

Hank tossed the phone onto the kitchen table with a heavy _clack_ , using his now-free hand to scrape the simple wooden chair along the tile and sink into it. He rested his forearms on the tabletop, his lips pursed as he lightly tapped the base of the bottle against the wooden surface in an arrhythmic, staccato fashion. Connor found himself fascinated by the intensity in the Lieutenant’s eyes, and he made his way into the small kitchen, seating himself opposite. Hank drummed his fingers against the bottle. “What do you think?”

Connor shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Been saying that a lot, lately.” Blue eyes flickered up towards him.

Connor inhaled slowly, feeling his biocomponents react to the additional coolant. It was a very soothing sensation. His own fingers began drumming against the side of his thigh. “She was killed in the executive levels of the CyberLife Tower, which means the killer is either exceptional at infiltration,” his fingers stilled, “or they’re an agent of CyberLife themselves.”

Hank grunted. “Do you really think the bigwigs would put a hit out on one of their own?”

“Yes.”

Something undefined flashed across Hank’s features, eyes hardening to sapphires for a split second, before he broke eye contact. He pressed his back into the chair, the wood creaking in protest from his weight against the relatively weak support the cheaply-produced seat provided. His hand left the side of the beer bottle, instead jamming the heel of his palm into the edge of the table and straightening his arm, bracing himself against it. They remained silent for a beat, Hank seemingly gathering his thoughts, and Connor waiting to hear what he had to say.

“We need to move very carefully,” Hank stated in a quiet, commanding tone. “If CyberLife is okay with assassinating one of their own executives, they won’t think twice about killing a cop and his android.”

Connor felt himself stifling a tiny smile. _His_ android.

Hank pinned him in a harsh stare; in the minimal light of the kitchen, it looked almost threatening. A finger was lifted in his direction. “And _you_ need to keep your head down until we can pin down how big this thing is, you hear me? No jumping onto fuckin’ _trains_ , or breaking into fortresses, got it? We play this _safe_.”

Despite being chastised for what was undeniably reckless behavior on his part, Connor felt himself oddly comforted by the Lieutenant’s ferocious level of concern for calling it out, in the first place. “I’ll try my best, Hank.”

“Fuckin’ A, try your best,” Hank grumbled, rising to his full height. He swiped the unattended beer from the table with more force than was strictly necessary. “Didn’t know CyberLife programmed smartasses.”

Connor couldn’t help but smirk. “Well, they _did_ design me to adapt to human unpre—“

Hank’s face screwed up into a closed-eyed sneer, holding a hand up in surrender. “Spare me the bullshit, will you?”

His programming prompted an apology. Connor ignored it.

Hank took an unusually small sip of the brew, before he scowled and twisted at the torso, tossing the partially-filled bottle into the nearby trashcan. “Fuck it, can’t do anything else until morning, anyway. I’m going to bed.”

Connor nodded curtly, watching as Hank slowly ambled his way out of the kitchen. “Sleep well, Hank.”

The Lieutenant lurched to a halt at the junction between the kitchen, living room, and darkened hallway. Hank pivoted, head cocked to the side, and regarded Connor oddly. “What about you? Do you need sleep?”

“Androids don’t sleep in the way that humans need to, but we do have a power-saving or ‘rest-mode’ to facilitate a similar functiona—“

“Then do it.” He motioned to the living room with a rather weak motion of the arm. The Lieutenant truly looked exhausted. “Go ahead, take the couch. May have to wrestle Sumo for it, though.”

Connor blinked at the request. He was still functioning at 89.1% capacity. “Hank, I don’t need—“

Hank inhaled sharply in the way that Connor learned came shortly before an emotional outburst. Usually, that entailed the Lieutenant getting in his face and threatening him. “Connor, will you just fuckin’ _listen_ to me, for once? You’re gonna blow a goddamn circuit spinning your tires all damn night, and then you won’t be any good to anybody. Sometimes, it helps to walk away and shut your brain down for a while. Just...” He raised a hand, and then just as quickly, dropped it back to his side. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Forget it.”

Hank stalked down the hallway, phrases like, “Fuckin’ stubborn asshole,” and other muttered obscenities left in his wake.

Connor blinked again, stunned. He had no idea what just happened—did he accidentally reject a proffered gift in the use of the couch, or was that just a by-product of Hank’s urgent need for sleep? He regarded the highly-contested piece of furniture, and the mighty beast that was currently sprawled upsidedown on top of it; legs up, tongue lolling out, fur cascading over the edge of the cushions like a maroon and white waterfall. How could Hank ever suggest he move Sumo out of such a clearly blissful state?

For a full second, Connor felt a white-hot flash of envy.

He removed himself from the kitchen and made his way to the occupied couch, shadow looming over the Saint Bernard. He remembered hearing that dogs loved belly rubs. He gave into the urge before he knew it was there, and his hand was gliding over the expanse of the dog’s stomach gently, smoothing out small knots in the fur as he went. He was utterly enamored with the way he could appreciate the difference between Sumo’s muscle-covered ribs and the soft tissue of his ever-gurgling stomach. On the sixth stroke, his hand paused over the magnificent creature’s chest, calmly taking note of his resting heart-rate, and wished that he had a biocomponent that he could synchronize with it.

Sumo, despite appearing dead to the world, swiveled his head to stare up at Connor. His brown eyes blinked at his twice, and sloppily licked its tongue over its nose. Somehow, he was able to decipher this movement as: _‘Excuse me,_ _plastic_ _human, but you seemed to have stopped petting me.’_ He snorted messily. _‘This is not acceptable.’_

Connor smiled, reaching up to lace his fingers behind a backwards-flopped ear. “Sorry, Sumo, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He glanced past his brows, to the corridor. “It looks like I made your owner mad for refusing to sleep on the couch. He suggested I move you.”

Sumo snorted again, licking his snout with a surprisingly prehensile tongue.

“I know, that’s what I thought. But—“

With a startling amount of speed, Sumo twirled his body around, pressed his paws into the cushions, rose to a sitting position, and licked him square in the mouth.

Connor shot backwards, spluttering as the sensors on his tongue were bombarded with information was neither expecting nor remotely interested in receiving. On instinct, he wrenched his head to the side and spat, wiping at his face with the back of one hand. Sumo panted happily, seemingly pleased by his reaction— _somehow_ —and hopped to the ground, tail thumping against his legs as he plodded past.

He gaped down blankly at the spot Sumo recently vacated, preconstructing just how hard Hank would have laughed if he’d been a witness to that. He snorted quietly to himself. There were worse fates.

He removed his CyberLife blazer, neatly folding it into a tight square and placing it on the floor next to him; didn’t want to ruin the only suit he had. He then settled onto the lumpy green couch cushions with his fingers threaded against his abdomen, directly above his thirium pump regulator. He closed his eyes, deactivating his visual sensors so as to not see the unfocused veil of light coming from the small kitchen lamp, and after a moment of uncertainty, activated his rest-mode, as Hank requested. In the 0.35 seconds prior to system shutdown, he felt his thirium pump tighten in a tense, irrational fear.

Connor hoped that Amanda wouldn’t come back.

* * *

Jeffery had gotten a whopping four hours of sleep in about as many days. He couldn’t even remember what his bed felt like. He was living off of the shit-quality basement swill the station called coffee, and whatever the fuck was still left in the vending machine; at the moment, it was two bars of Snickers and a package of Krispy Kremes. He would be lucky to live long enough to get Type-2 diabetes before the inevitable heart attack claimed him. Or a stray bullet from some crazy gun-toting asshole. He couldn’t tell which end he was least looking forward to.

He heard yet another chime from a new email notification. They were coming in faster than he could read them, now that the Commissioner decided _he_ would be the main point of contact between the eyes on the ground, and that it was his responsibility to filter up the most useful information to the top brass. Goddamn glorified secretary. He glanced down to his phone, wondering what he was getting now.

_Subject: P99_ _-_ _CL 10-56. 10-55d_

“God,” Jeffery breathed, the sweetness of chocolate and caramel tasting like ash in his mouth. _Another_ CyberLife suicide reported. Including the one Hank was riding his ass about, this latest one made _six_. He’d lived through two stock-market crashes in his lifetime, and given the shitstorm they were navigating right now, might well be living through a third, so the idea of the higher-ups suck-starting shotguns when they found themselves in the poorhouse wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. But their stocks hadn’t even dropped yet—shit, the government was still trying to wrap its head around the idea of artificial intelligence, let alone figuring out what the hell to do with the company that created it.

There were two main reasons Fowler didn’t term Hank’s ass at first blush of his anti-social bullshit. One: Jeffery was compromised. He’d never admit to anyone, dead or alive, and had trouble admitting it even to the mirror, but when push came to shove, he couldn’t throw the man out on the streets when he knew that would mean someone would find Hank’s dead body a few days later. This was more easily explained away by reason two: Hank was goddamn good at his job. Even when piss drunk, even when he didn’t give a shit about his job or anything around him, he could always sniff out a perp. So, if Hank got whiff that something about this suicide shit wasn’t adding up, then he was willing to go to bat for him; he just needed sufficient evidence to back them both up.

Evidence they currently lacked.

He opened the email, read the contents, and sent back what he’d sent to the four previous notifications:

_Send me autopsy and lab results ASAP._

_\- Cpt. Jeffery Fowler_

He choked down the mush that was caked on the inside of his cheek, following it with a mouthful of bitter brown tap-water, as he stared at the empty bullpen in front of him. He’d only come back here to get something in his stomach before he passed out, but he couldn’t stop himself from watching the newsfeed with passing curiosity. He’d been so lost, wading waist deep into this mess, that seeing what the pundits were getting out of all of this was as refreshing as it was infuriating. On the plus side, the footage highlighted how the Recall Centers were shut down across the board, but that was immediately wiped out by the signs of violence against the androids that were now, alive or not, life-like target dummies for the disenfranchised.

God, this was such a fucking shitshow. The _one time_ he hoped the government would get off their asses to keep the people safe, and they get _this_ : the country ground to a halt because the android workforce it relied on was suddenly gone, replaced by an army of plastic hobos with no status, no rights, and nowhere to go.

How the fuck did Jeffery find himself wishing for the _simplicity_ of Red Ice epidemics?

He couldn’t investigate this. He didn’t have the manpower. Of the cops he had left—which wasn’t all that many, since about a third were the androids that went deviant, and another third decided to take the exit offered them and bail—they were overwhelmed by more serious, immediate crimes. The city was largely abandoned, but many of the humans left were treating it like they were living out the goddamn robot apocalypse instead of using their brains. Not to mention the opportunists that saw any civil unrest as a free five-finger discount coupon, to be redeemed at every location they could get within reach of.

The phone chimed again.

 _“CyberLife sent an android out to_ kill _me, Jeffery. Doesn’t that concern you?”_

“Yeah,” he replied to himself. “Yeah, it concerns me a whole fuckin’ _lot_.”

He picked up his phone and dialed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not get used to this speed of update. I'm on vacation, and cracking the fuck out to ficcage while I have the chance.
> 
> Really, when I mentioned the 'slow burn' previously, it's not that I don't want to move quickly. But I fucking _love_ writing interactions between Connor and Hank so fucking much, you don't understand. It's so much fun. :D
> 
> Police codes: 10-56 (Intoxicated person/Suicide), 10-55d (Send Coroner)


	7. Triage

Hank awoke, gasping and shaking, to a room engulfed in darkness. His sheets lay tangled between his legs, his hands gripping the thin, blue-and-gray patterned fabric so hard that he could feel the cheap thread straining in his fists. He shuddered out a breath before sucking one in just as quickly, as though his lungs couldn’t stand the idea of being deflated. To compromise, he held his breath while the world came into focus.

Too late, he noticed the weak shaft of light that emerged from his bedroom door, cracked open just enough for a pair of chocolate brown eyes to stare at him in concern.

Hank exhaled again in a rush, roughly letting the back of his head slam into the headrest, brows and mouth pinched. _Fuck_ , he’d been screaming again, hadn’t he? He swallowed, confirming this theory as the motion felt like he’d been gargling with razor blades. Had he been crying, too? He blinked; his eyeballs didn’t feel three sizes too big for his skull and coated in sandpaper, so he guessed that was a no. He let his eyes stay closed for a long, precious, shameful moment. He didn’t want to have to explain this; not now, not ever.

“Are you alright?”

Hank’s heart twisted in his chest. God, his voice was so fucking _soft_ —timid, and even uncertain. The stubborn little shit was a lot of things, but _uncertain_ was not one of them. It normally drove him up the fucking wall. He cleared his throat, forcing back the wince as he did so. “Yeah.” The garbled mess that came out of his mouth instead of a voice definitely didn’t help sell his story. He tried again. “Yeah, I’m—I’m fine.”

The door creaked open, unusually loud in the cavernous silence of the house, as the kid made his way over to the bed. Hank was surprised Sumo wasn’t bursting through the door, at this point; damn mutt never could let the humans have a nice chat without butting in. “What can I do to help?”

 _‘_ _You can leave me alone,’_ Hank wanted to say, and damn near did. But one look into those eyes, and he just… His shoulders slumped, the overworked muscles shouting in protest, while he reached a hand out to lightly clasp a narrow wrist. He forced on a reassuring smile, and found that it stopped being forced when the hand engulfed in his grabbed at his fingers. “You can just keep being you, alright?”

The kid tipped his head to the side, clearly confused—because why wouldn’t he be, Hank was practically speaking in fucking riddles, here—but never the less, returned the smile. “Okay, Daddy.”

Then Cole slipped his tiny arm from Hank’s grip and launched himself face-first into his chest.

Hank actually tensed for a split second, not expecting the movement, before everything in him unwound at once from the feel of his boy desperately trying to wrap his arms around him. His own arms curled around Cole’s warmth, closing his eyes again to memorize every last detail before—

Hank’s phone rang. His eyes flew open, greeted by cold, biting reality.

Before the moment was gone forever.

 **7.  
** **Triage**

Hank stared lifelessly at the nearby wall; felt the cool, scratchy cloth of the mattress beneath his forearm, and the soft, if lumpy, comfort of a nearby cotton pillow.

Neither of those things were Cole. He was too empty to cry.

The phone rang again, cutting through the silence like a chainsaw through a particularly stubborn tree-stump. He winced, but remained exactly as he was. He knew he should answer it, because fuck if anyone ever called _him_ unless they really needed him for something, but that took energy. _Living_ took energy, and right now, he just...

A third ring blared, and he clumsily reached out to paw at the annoying piece of fucking plastic. He gave half a thought to just shutting the damn thing off—and maybe throwing it out the window, for good measure—but muscle memory prompted his arm to do the work where his brain wasn’t willing, and the phone was pressed to his ear as his mouth blandly spat out, “Yeah?”

_“Hank.”_

Fowler. The unexpected voice prompted some measure of alertness to form in his mind.

 _“Hank!_ _Sober the fuck up, will you?”_

Shit, he forgot to speak. “I _am_ sober, you asshole, you just woke me up. What do you want?”

Fowler scoffed over the line, disbelieving. _“_ _Right. I have a proposition for you, if you’re up_ _to_ _listening to me.”_

He didn’t miss the small dig. Asshole. “I’m suspended, remember? I don’t have to listen to shit.”

 _“_ _If you want your badge back, you will.” That_ definitely prompted alertness; he was propped on his free elbow in an instant, legs tense to jump out of bed. A small, nasty little part of him commented on why he was so quick to leap back into the fray; it was _the fray_ that hollowed him out, in the first place. He gave that part of him the two-fingered salute. _“_ _I guess I have your undivided attention, now?”_

“Oh, stop talking like a fucking Bond villain, Fowler,” he shot back with a scowl. “What is it that you want me to do?”

 _“_ _Meet me at Hart Plaza, by that defunct Recall Center, in about an hour. We’ll talk more there.”_ He paused for a split second, before adding, _“Bring the android with you. We’ll need it, too.”_

“ _Him_ ,” he corrected sharply. Maybe Fowler was doing it to purposely piss him off. If he was, it was working.

_Click._

He glared up at his phone, his scowl deepening. “Asshole.” He slipped from the bed with a speed he hadn’t used in years—well, ignoring the times he had to make a mad dash to the bathroom, or else vomit all over his carpet. Those dashes weren’t always successful. He shook away the memories as he quietly made his way down the corridor, not really understanding on a surface level why he was bothering to be careful. Connor was a fucking android; they had an audio sensitivity that would make a bat seem deaf. This thought hovered at the edge of his consciousness when he reached the end of the hall and saw Connor laying on the couch, looking for all the world like he was passed out with the world’s biggest fur pillow sprawled on the floor next to his legs.

He did a double-take, lips parted in a mixture of curiosity and shock as he took in the sight. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured. The stubborn little bastard actually listened to him, for once. If it weren’t for the LED on his right temple that slowly, methodically pulsed blue, he wouldn’t have been able to discern him from any other person on Earth. He continued to breathe evenly, and the expression he wore was about as relaxed as Hank was ever likely to see him. His stupid spit-curl even looked more tousled than normal, and he thought he spied a hint of dog hair in it. Hank felt something in him—something ordinarily jagged and frayed, pulsing hot and painful in time with his heartbeat—soothe itself ever so gently; a balm on a perennially fresh wound.

He caught himself wondering if Connor could dream.

An invisible chain corded around his neck was yanked back sharply, and with it, the feeling faded so quickly that—if he’d wanted to—he could have convinced himself that he had never felt it in the first place.

He tore himself away from the thought with a vicious twist of his face, remembering why he was even up to begin with. He made his way to the coffee maker that he hadn’t used in well over a year, sifting through the cabinet for the bag of grounds while stifling the sensation to mutter under his breath, like the old curmudgeon he was. He really didn’t know what would take Connor out of his ‘rest-mode’, but if it offered him any semblance of actual rest, Hank wanted to make sure the kid got it. Whatever it was that Fowler wanted them for, it damn well better be worth their time. If the powers that be decided to punish him with some bullshit grunt work—

Or if they were planning on using Connor as a _sacrificial lamb_ —

His fingers stilled on the lid of the dusty coffee machine, jaw tightened. On the bright side, he reassured himself in the way a man headed to the gallows searched for the silver lining, if they _did_ offer him a quid pro quo in exchange for Connor, he was being gift-wrapped a chance to tell the whole damn lot of them where they could shove the horses they rode in on.

Hank let Connor sleep in.

* * *

Something thick and heavy abruptly landed on Connor’s head. “Rise and shine!”

He jolted out of rest-mode, hands flailing uselessly for 1.7 seconds as his sensors readjusted to his surroundings. His fingers curled into the fabric covering his face, curious as to its familiar texture, and yanked it away with a jerk of his head. Hank continued, unconcerned with his plight, “C’mon, up and at ‘em—we’ve got a meeting with Fowler in thirty.”

He checked his internal chronometer; _7:36 AM_. Incredibly early for Hank. He gaped down at what was, evidently, his CyberLife blazer in his grip, then redirected his gaze at the figure who stood over him. Connor felt his features tighten in annoyance. “Was that really necessary?”

Hank’s expression was alight with amusement as he turned away, already fully dressed and ready for their trip. “Nope.”

The blatant admission annoyed Connor further, and he lifted his jacket up gingerly to inspect it. He frowned. “There’s dog hair on it.”

“There’s dog hair on _everything_ , Connor—he’s a Saint Bernard.” Hank retreated into the dimly-lit kitchen, procuring a simple aluminum thermos from beneath a coffee machine and sealing the lid with a careful _click_. Something about his demeanor caught Connor off-guard, as he watched the Lieutenant scoop up his keys and quietly talk Sumo down from thinking they were going to the park. Hank wasn’t acting particularly cheerful—Connor wasn’t certain if Hank could _be_ cheerful—but he did seem to be carrying himself with a greater sense of urgency than was normally present.

He silently began reconstructing the scenario as he stood, deftly twirling his blazer around his back and sliding his arms through the fabric in one quick, smooth motion. He tugged lightly at his sleeves and hemming along the torso, making certain that the custom-fit jacket was as crease-free and professional looking as he could make it. His brows dipped momentarily at the sight of dog fur clinging to the synthetic fiber portions, but that couldn’t be helped, given his current accommodations. Besides, if he _were_ to protest, Sumo might take personal offense and refuse his company at a later date. That simply wouldn’t do. “You said Fowler wanted meet with you?”

“To meet with _us_ ,” Hank corrected as they walked into the bitter November morning.

“To potentially reinstate you,” Connor offered, brow raised.

Hank shot a questioning glare from across the expanse of the Buick’s battered hood. “Eavesdropping in your sleep?”

Connor shook his head crisply, hand paused at the passenger door handle. “No, Lieutenant. I merely inferred as much, given that we’re heading to an early-morning meeting with Captain Fowler, when you’ve indicated that you have no fondness towards any of those subjects. Moreover, you’ve attempted to straighten your appearance, which suggests this meeting is of particular importance to you, since you didn’t seem to show any regard for personal hygie—“

“You’ve made your point, Connor,” the Lieutenant stated flatly as his eyes were pinned on him, bordering on hostile. He shoved open the car door with barely-restrained resentment. “I’m a slob; I get it.” Without waiting for a response, he heaved himself into the driver’s seat, the suspension groaning from the addition of 209 pounds of human body mass.

Connor hesitated for two cycles of his thirium pump before he slid into the car himself, sitting with his hands on his knees and facing carefully forward. The car came alive with a roar of the obsolete internal combustion engine as Hank hastily backed out of the driveway, cabin jerking from the sudden changes in speed. He didn’t miss the way the Lieutenant tightly gripped the steering wheel with both hands. In retrospect, maybe he did a poor job of wording himself. A pre-programmed response sprang to the forefront, which he just as quickly shoved away. He turned his head, hoping that honesty wouldn’t dig him into a deeper hole. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I wasn’t trying to offend you. While I’m programmed with the knowledge of current societal norms, those have no bearing on my opinion of—“

“Shut up, Connor.” It wasn’t an idle request.

Connor almost listened to it.

“You’re my _friend_ , Hank.” Succinct. Blunt. Maybe that would work.

A bright blue eye flashed in his direction, and then returned back to the road. His hands still held the steering wheel, but the tendons that stretched over his knuckles were no longer visible beneath the calloused folds of skin. “Yeah, well, you have shitty taste in friends.”

Connor’s brows knitted together; the Lieutenant’s reply was some form of self-flagellation, he was certain. He was as curious about Hank’s motivations behind it as he was concerned about Hank’s impulse to use it. He glanced away briefly, through the smudged passenger window, tipping his head in acknowledgment. “I’ve only had free will for 35 hours, so I imagine that interpreting my own preferences will be... _challenging_.” His head remained in position as his eyes swung back to Hank. “But I do know that I _want_ to call you my friend. So I will.”

The smooth plastic of the Buick’s steering wheel squeaked beneath Hank’s grip. He appeared no calmer for the admission. “You say that now.”

Connor felt the curious-concern sensation intensify and parted his lips to question further, before he noted the sudden uptick in the Lieutenant’s heart-rate. Under the circumstances, he decided changing the subject might be the best course of action. “Do you know what Captain Fowler wants from us?”

“Not a clue.”

Silence stretched on. Hank hadn’t turned on the stereo, which was an odd choice for him. The Lieutenant always had music blaring, save their trip to the Eden Club, in which Hank had been groaning miserably about his head ‘being split open with a motorized pickaxe’ the entire way. Gruesome imagery aside, he’d seemed contemplative, if also annoyed. He wore a similar expression now—though perhaps more annoyed than contemplative, this time around. Connor’s hand twitched against the joint of his knee. “Do you believe it has something to do with investigating CyberLife?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Connor didn’t like how vague the Lieutenant was being. Given the consistent rolling of jaw muscles, he surmised the Lieutenant didn’t like how vague he was being, either.

Guess they would find out, indeed.

They parked illegally on the side of East Congress Street, already knowing that the entirety of Woodward Avenue and most of East Jefferson were blocked off by police barricades. Their half mile walk was spent in silence, with Hank’s features remaining stoic as he analyzed his surroundings. No doubt, he noted the conspicuous patches of asphalt dotted between the gentle layers of snow as they walked down Woodward, the cold gray shapes conforming too closely to the average size of an android’s body for them to be anything else. Hank’s eyes remained trained on a particular outline as they passed, significantly smaller than most others, the displeased knot of his brows being the only reaction to show through his mask. Connor knew Hank couldn’t see the long-since evaporated thirium, and was strangely relieved for it—if Hank had, he might have retched at what the blood-spatters told him.

Connor focused on Hank’s reactions to avoid focusing on his own. The wrongness in his biocomponents returned, with them tilting inappropriately in their sheathes, jostling against wires they weren’t supposed to touch. His diagnostics already told him—twice—that there had been no irreparable structural damage to his chassis, and that the biocomponents were, while not in optimal condition, certainly functional. Never the less, the space between them, filled to the brim with cords, servos, and liquid-gel thirium coolant, pulsed in a distracting, unpleasant rhythm that made it hard for his artificial lungs to work properly. The sight of Recall Center’s crane, looming gray and terrible in the approaching distance, made the reinforced mesh walls of his throat close up, the airflow halting abruptly. The skittering of a thousand nanites writhed along his wiring, crawling into the soft spots between his joint servos and digging down into the titanium alloy.

This was a mistake. He shouldn’t be here—

“Jesus Christ,” Hank breathed beside him, voice losing all bass as his gaze fell upon the seemingly endless sloping hills of plastic that stretched behind the makeshift command center that had been thrown together in front of the camp’s entrance. The mask had cracked, and in its place was an expression of awe, with a distinct undercurrent of horror. Hank couldn’t see the details like Connor could—every individual face, with their wide, dead eyes, gaping into nothing like a drowned fish—and was relieved for this, as well. If there were a way to protect his friend from that kind of psychological scarring, he would prefer to do it.

Slowly, his throat began to relax.

With an exhale more audible than he likely meant it to be, Hank recovered from his state of initial shock, settling easily back into stoicism. He motioned to the small hub with a nod of his head, threads of silver hair billowing about his face from the wind. “There’s Fowler. Ah, shit, _and_ the Commissioner.” He sucked in a steadying breath, squaring his shoulders. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

Hearing the disgust in Hank’s voice, Connor regarded this Commissioner and immediately scanned him with his facial recognition program.

_**Commissioner Waller** , Derek_  
_**Born:** 04/14/78 // Police  
**Criminal record:** None_

Commissioner Derek Waller was an imposing man of a sort, though not in the same manner that Hank could achieve effortlessly. Standing at nearly 6’1”, he carried himself like a man who knew how important vanity was to those around him, especially those whose backed him. His white hair was thick and trimmed fairly short, brushed back in such a way that it made his widow’s peak more pronounced. His face was statuesque, with sharp cheekbones, a square jaw, and beady eyes that didn’t seem to diffuse any light from nearby sources. His lips were tugged down at the corners; displeasure, perhaps even distaste. He was garbed in a navy suit with a matte black tie, largely hidden beneath a long black wool coat with the collar turned upward for additional protection from the elements.

While Connor could appreciate someone with a taste for smart business-wear, an officer of the law dressing as such struck a dissonant chord with him, and for all of the millions funneled into his various programming suites, he couldn’t understand as to why. Instinct told him to be wary. With no other information available to him, coupled with the Lieutenant’s obvious reticence, he decided that it was the best course of action; purely logical.

He continued his clandestine scanning, compiling information about Waller’s heart-rate, blood-pressure, and pupil dilation as Hank strode forward with confidence, shoulders back and head up in spite of the bitter cold. Connor followed closely behind, his posture as stiffly formal as it ever was. It was both a sign of respect to the Commissioner for his position, and a sign of defiance, should the Commissioner believe Connor to be subservient to mankind. He genuinely hoped the man didn’t; it would complicate matters substantially.

They stopped at the small table fashioned out of a few overturned metal barrels, holding aloft a weatherproofed laptop, two tablets connected to the whirring machine, and a paper map of Detroit City with a pen and pencil laying haphazardly on top of it. Connor momentarily stared at the floundering map in curiosity, having never seen one before, as the Lieutenant stood equidistant between his two superiors, feet planted shoulder-width apart with his hands folded behind his back. Parade rest. It suited him surprisingly well; Hank held it with dignity and authority. “You wanted to see us?”

Commissioner Waller’s heart-rate went up by 10 BPM for 2.4 seconds. “Captain Fowler has debriefed me on the current situation.” He clenched his jaw, most likely to keep his teeth from chattering—though Connor was certain it was intended to look intimidating—and narrowed dark brown eyes in their direction. “I don’t think I have to tell you that I have... _doubts_ about his recommendation.”

Beneath the thin veneer of professionalism, Hank appeared thoroughly unimpressed. “I’m not surprised, sir. We’ve never really seen eye-to-eye.” His lip twitched mirthlessly, just as Fowler’s brows twitched down. Hank motioned to Fowler with a slight nod of his head, his eyes never leaving the Commissioner. “What _is_ his ‘recommendation’?”

Fowler spoke up before Waller had a chance to. “To be temporarily reinstated, in order to properly work the CyberLife case. This will act as a probationary period, in which Internal Affairs and the Commissioner will be judging your performance to determine the viability of a more permanent reinstatement.”

“’Judging my performance’—what is this, a beauty contest?” Hank sneered, head darting back and forth as he struggled to decide who was worth scowling at more.

“It’s the only lifeline you have, Hank,” Fowler scowled back, expression unyielding. “If you want your badge back, I suggest you take it.”

Hank swiveled his head towards Commissioner Waller in a strangely predatory manner, reminiscent of a hawk that had spotted prey. His wavy hair, wild and unkempt from the wind, gave him a nearly feral look. “I’m guessing _you_ had something to do with this?”

Commissioner Waller’s thin lips curved minutely. “Adversarial as ever, I see. Good to know not _everything_ has changed about you in recent years.”

Hank’s baritone was low and threatening as he pursed his lips in mock contemplation. “What can I say? I’m not a fan of power-hungry assholes who treat people like chess pieces.”

“Awfully mouthy for a chess piece.”

“You don’t say.”

Connor couldn’t help but glance between the three men with a mixture of fascination and growing concern that he might need to physically intervene on Lieutenant Anderson’s behalf before long. Captain Fowler, stalwart amidst the tension that was unfurling between the two, cleared his throat as a means of audible distraction. Of the three, only Connor seemed to acknowledge it. “Commissioner Waller, with your permission, I’d like to debrief them on the case.”

“I don’t want confidential information going to civilians, Captain.” Dark eyes, still void of any refracting light, held firm on them for a long moment. “What do you say, Anderson? Do we have a deal?”

The Lieutenant remained silent for three incredibly long cycles of Connor’s thirium pump, features stony in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature. “What’s your angle in all of this?”

Waller exhaled a quiet laugh, one that triggered a falsification alert in Connor’s interrogation software. “I have no ‘angle’, Anders—“

“Don’t give me that shit,” Hank spat, blue eyes appearing even more vivid for their intensity. “There is no ‘probationary period’ for officers on suspension—you’re either in or you’re out. You have us here not because of Fowler’s _recommendation_ , but because you _want_ something out of us—something you can’t get from anyone else. So, what is it?”

“You’re not in a position to be making demands, Anderson,” the Commissioner warned, the inflection in his tenor coming across as oddly slithering.

“Alright. Fuck you, then.” Hank turned smartly on the ball of his foot, reaching a hand out rest firmly on Connor’s arm. “C’mon, Connor, let’s go—“

“Connor, what do you think about a field promotion?”

Both stopped dead in their tracks; Hank glared over his shoulder in open disgust, Connor remained outwardly inscrutable, though he inwardly wanted to mirror the Lieutenant’s gesture down to the last synthetic tendon. The Commissioner brought up a hand, not unlike Hank’s, and waved in Connor’s direction. He noted the hand was gloved. He wasn’t certain why that bothered him. “You don’t _have_ to follow him, you know. You’re one of those _deviants_ now, is that right?”

Connor didn’t miss the subtle judgment in the Commissioner’s tone, the downward note of _disapproval_. It brought him back to the Zen Garden, to Amanda’s severe countenance marred by flecks of bitter white snowflakes that were dragged along an unforgiving, shrieking wind. It made him all too aware of the substance crushed beneath his high-quality leather soles, and the wariness he felt blossomed like a rosebush in sunlight, the thorny vines of _contempt_ digging sharply into his chest. “Yes. I am.”

Waller nodded in support, and the thorns bit down all the harder. “Good. I could use someone with your skills on this investigation, and with your affiliation to CyberLife—“

“ _Former_ affiliation,” Connor quickly interjected, wanting to formally set the record straight. “I terminated my employment with them when I became aware that they were using me to assassinate an innocent man.”

A thin white brow arched. “That man being Markus?”

“That’s correct.”

Waller smiled thinly. He was...oddly unfazed by the admission. “Let me rephrase, then. With your _knowledge_ of CyberLife, and the sophistication of your model’s software—including your deviancy, of course—you could be an incredible asset to the Department, not just now, but in the future, as well.” The smile widened a hair, brows arching again. “What do you say, ‘Detective’?”

Connor chanced a furtive glance over to the Lieutenant, and was greeted by a harsh mask, with only the slightest tightening of his cheeks and oscillation of his pupils cluing him in to what he was truly thinking: _‘don’t listen to him.’_ He returned his attention to Commissioner Waller, who was all smooth, crisp confidence and conveniently-timed promises. He inhaled, straightening his posture as far as it could go. “I’d say that Lieutenant Anderson’s observations are correct: you have an ulterior motive, one you elect not to share, or else you wouldn’t have entertained Captain Fowler’s request.”

He angled his head, regarding the highest level of city law enforcement with the same expectant, withering glare he’d given the HR400 in the interrogation room. “Your body language and speech patterns indicate an adversarial relationship with Lieutenant Anderson, a decorated, veteran police officer. You’ve refused to acknowledge my existence until it was clear that we were going to leave, and then offered me a position on the false belief that I was with the Lieutenant based on programming parameters instead of free will. And yet, in spite of your intense dislike of both myself _and_ the Lieutenant, you specifically want us to head what’s likely to be a very high-profile investigation into the same company responsible for Detroit’s current situation. All of this points to desperation on your part: you want a problem solved, and you believe that we’re the only two in the city capable of doing it.” He blinked, calmly asking, “Did I misinterpret anything?”

Commissioner Waller’s beady eyes narrowed, cheeks dimpling as he bit the inside corner of his lip. His tone was begrudging. “Your software _is_ sophisticated.”

Somehow, that elicited a pleasant response rustling somewhere in his sub-routines. Was this spite? “I haven’t _used_ my software yet, Commissioner.” He sculpted his features into something more agreeable. “And I accept your proposal, on one condition.”

It was Waller’s turn to be wary. “Which is?”

“Reinstate Lieutenant Anderson—fully. No probation, no strings attached.” His dark brown eyes slid to his right momentarily, catching the barest glimpse of a wool-covered shoulder and billowing gray hair. He inhaled. “I was the reason he attacked Special Agent Perkins. It was at my request.”

“Connor—“

“If I had failed my mission, CyberLife would have destroyed me,” Connor continued, knowing that he wasn’t going to warm the heart of the man in front of him, but was never the less compelled to state the truth. The sensors of his face and chest still ran hot with shame. “He saved my life.”

As predicted, the Commissioner didn’t appear at all moved. In fact, he almost seemed offended. “A human took orders from an android?”

“The _human_ made his own damn choices,” Hank argued, stepping forward to nearly block Connor’s view of Waller. “And I’ll take any good excuse to punch Perkins in the face; saving his plastic ass was just a bonus.”

Connor was blindsided with an inexplicable, irrational desire to hug the Lieutenant, social decorum and personal boundaries be damned. He promptly ignored it. “Let us do our jobs, Commissioner. We won’t let you down.”

Something crossed Waller’s face that looked distinctly unpleasant—he casually rifled through the list of American English idioms he had stored to find the appropriate description: ‘spitting tacks’ seemed to be a close enough fit. Waller glared across the makeshift table at Fowler. “Is there anything else you need to debrief me on, Captain?”

Fowler shook his head, ever the professional. “No, sir.”

Waller grunted, steam expelling from his nose like smoke from a dragon’s belly. “Fine, then. Fowler, keep me informed.” He pivoted, stopped, and leveled Hank with a glare that was about as malevolent as a mythological creature was likely to have. “And _you_ —don’t make me regret this.”

“Oh, please,” Hank snorted. “I know you already do.”

A growl rumbled low in his throat, and he finished his pivot to stalk off past the Recall Center, the throng of androids and officers milling about swallowing his form in a matter of moments. Hank watched the man retreat as though he could set fire to the landscape through sheer force of will. Connor believed that were such a thing actually possible, the Lieutenant would have absolutely succeeded in that endeavor. “I hate that man so fucking much.”

“We can tell, Hank,” Fowler responded curtly, clearly pushed to the limits of his patience. “Now, do you two want these or not?”

They faced the beleaguered Captain, whose squinted eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and whose shoulders sagged beneath a weight Connor could only barely fathom. Held up in his hands were two small leather cases, nearly identical save for the years of wear and tear one had been put through—scuff marks, gouges, and what looked to be a repaired bullet hole. Connor knew what they were without needing additional information, a strange warmth permeating his biocomponents that was not a result of his heat sensors recalibrating. Badges. It felt... _good_.

Evidently, Hank agreed. For all the Lieutenant’s lone-wolf posturing and loudly proclaimed hatred of his job, his eyes were locked on that well-worn leather sleeve as though it were the most precious thing in the world to him. Perhaps, at this juncture in his life, it was; perhaps that was why the Lieutenant was suicidal. He thought his job was all he had left. Something in that thought caused the rim of Connor’s thirium pump regulator to sting uncomfortably.

“I called in every favor I had to get these—and a few I didn’t,” Fowler stated as he shook the cases in his hands for effect, his voice raspy from overuse. His eyes shifted from Hank, to Connor, and back; his gaze was hard, but there was a frayed softness to the edges, something undefinable that tugged awkwardly at Connor’s mind palace. “I put my _job_ on the line for the both of you. So, from here on out, you are on your own; I _cannot_ protect you anymore.” He stared at Hank for 5.44 seconds, expression still carrying the hints of tattered edges and decades of complicated history. “Do you understand?”

Hank reached out to pull the badge from the Captain’s fingers, slipping it into his coat pocket with a feigned casualness. His tone belied the weight he fought to hide. “Yeah, I got it.”

Fowler pinned Connor next, and all traces of the vague softness vanished beneath a wall of wrought iron, fashioned behind his eyes. He used the badge as a proxy for an index finger. “And _you_ need to keep in line. I don’t care what you did as a machine, now you’re one of my men, and I’m not in the business of losing people over stupid stunts. Do you hear me?”

Connor found himself bristling slightly at the reprimand. Did they think he was _that_ reckless? He stifled the dissent behind a courteous nod, taking the badge into his hands. “I understand, Captain. You can count on me.”

“I damn well _better_.” Fowler tugged the edges of his blue vinyl winter coat tighter around him, and leaned his knuckles into one of the metal barrels. “Now, gentlemen, let’s get to work.”

* * *

Hank absently tapped a knuckle against his lips as he reread the reports in the driver’s side of his car. Two execs, three department heads, and a senior member of CyberLife’s legal branch dead. All apparent suicides, within eight hours of each other from first body to last. Fowler’s debriefing of the situation was mercifully short, with what scant information they had from the crime scenes compiled in front of him onto a DPD-issued tablet. Ignoring what he knew about Carnegie’s death, he felt a tug in his gut that told him these were staged—the deaths were all too clean, with the evidence left in perfect view, and while the methods themselves differed from person to person, they all left eerily similar suicide notes. All six of them. He knew, statistically and personally, that a majority of suicides didn’t bother leaving an explanation.

He certainly wouldn’t.

Something in his chest chafed, and he found himself glancing up past stringy locks of gray hair towards Connor, who gazed down at his newly-acquired badge with a pinched expression. He quirked an eyebrow. “Analyzing what it’s made out of?”

“No,” Connor replied distantly. Of course he’d miss the joke. “I’m just thinking.” He lifted his head to face Hank, gently inquisitive. “May I ask a personal—“

“Just fucking _ask_ , Connor,” he groaned with an exasperated roll of his eyes.

“Why did you become a cop?”

Hank grimaced before he was able to stop himself, and he leaned into his loosely-closed fist, staring blankly through the snow-dotted windshield as he willed the answer to the surface. Nothing happened. He exhaled, trying to ignore the pang of emptiness that came with the failure. That failed, too. “...I don’t know anymore.” When Connor didn’t respond, he angled his head to get a bead on him out of the corner of his eye. “What about you? Is it everything you ever dreamed of?”

“Androids don’t dream, Lieutenant.”

“Jesus.” Hank shook his head, dropping the tablet into his lap and giving Connor his full attention. He didn’t like the detachment in the kid’s voice; whatever else could be said about him, he was always full of energy. “Alright, what is it? Something’s eating at you.”

He couldn’t see the LED, but then, he didn’t need an LED to read facial expressions, least of all Connor’s. His eyes were downcast as he returned his gaze to the glinting badge. “I leveraged you to get what I want.”

A snort erupted from the back of Hank’s throat. “ _You_ leveraged _me_? If Waller’d had any idea how _little_ you listen to me, he’d have told me to fuck right off.”

“It’s not about that.” Connor’s grip on his badge tightened. Hank let the silence drag on; he’d done this kind of interrogation work before. And he’d lived with his ex-wife for nearly ten years. “I want to bring CyberLife down, Hank, and finding a way to be an official part of the investigation was the best way to achieve that goal.”

Hank shot Connor a look that fell somewhere between contemplative and vaguely amused. He took the thermos of coffee from the console and flicked the cap open with his thumb, tilting it in Connor’s direction. “So, can I ask _you_ a personal question?”

Connor faced him and nodded primly. “Of course, Lieutenant.”

His expression hardened abruptly. “How fuckin’ stupid do you think I am?”

Connor blinked twice, mouth ajar in stunned silence. He was almost surprised that the smartass didn’t try to actually answer him.

Hank frowned. “I’m a _cop_ , Connor. Do you really think I’d have let you anywhere near my home if I thought for _one second_ that you were up to something shady— _especially_ after your asshole twin paid me a visit?” He took a defiant swig and his face instantly screwed up in distaste; ugh, Jesus, lukewarm coffee did _not_ mix well with Black Lamb. He swallowed with an audible mewl of revulsion and sat the thermos back down with a solid _clank,_ scooping up the tablet to continue reading. “CyberLife deserves to go down for all the shit they did; I don’t blame you for wanting payback.”

“It isn’t about payback.” There was that distance, again. It pissed him off.

He immediately dropped the hardware back into his lap, snapping his head up. “Then what _is_ it about?”

Hank wished he hadn’t asked once he saw Connor’s expression start to hollow out, gaze sliding to a point far beyond the horizon as he seemed to fold in on himself ever so slightly in the passenger seat. His voice was smaller than it had any right to be. “I don’t want revenge, I...” His brown eyes, unfocused and lost, flickered back to his, and in the swirling depths, Hank could see _fear_. It made his hand itch for the thermos again. “I just want people to be safe.”

Something heavy settled in the pit of Hank’s stomach, and it wasn’t the liquor. What he just witnessed, having learned from _very_ personal experience, was Connor showing the all-too human reaction to trauma. Shit, this was _not_ a conversation he wanted to have in his car at 8:22 in the fucking morning, all while desperately trying to stave off another round of the shakes. Fuck him for ever opening his mouth. “Safe from what?”

Connor’s lips worked, twitching at the corners once, then twice. Nothing came out of them.

Hank didn’t like that silence one damn bit, especially from someone that practically fucking _lived_ for over-description. So, that meant that Connor was either ashamed or afraid, and both of those options ignited a red-hot fury in his veins that couldn’t be quelled by any amount of whiskey. He pitched his head forward in a bare attempt to catch the kid’s gaze, careful to keep his tone and mannerisms as neutral as possible. He hated that he had to. “Connor. Look. If you don’t want to tell me what’s going on, that’s fine. But if you don’t tell me, I can’t help you. Alright? Don’t—“ _‘Don’t be like me.’_ “Just...don’t let it bite you in the ass, okay?”

Connor’s temple danced yellow in time with the subtle shifting of his eyes before he looked away, pulsing LED slipping out of view as he returned to his usual rod-up-the-ass sitting position. His chiseled features smoothed into a well-worn mask, a soft swallow being the only residual tell that anything even happened at all. “Perhaps,” Connor began, tenor faltering on the second syllable, “now would be the best time to make use of our regained authority, Lieutenant. Where should we head first?”

Unbidden, Hank’s own words rang in his head: _“Emotions always screw everything up.”_

He jammed the tablet in between his seat and the console, yanking up the thermos to force down a gulp of liquid as his jaw tensed in protest. He plunked the cup back down and twisted the ignition key, gripping the steering wheel with his free hand while the engine chugged in the unforgiving cold. He faced Connor with raised eyebrows, stating with more blasé than he felt, “To the most exclusive bachelor’s club in town.”

Connor attempted to match his expression, though his was far more dubious. “...The Eden Club?”

Hank faced forward, shifting into gear. “The morgue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This rabbit hole, it's a deep one.


	8. Seek Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

Connor had never been to a morgue before.

He knew all about them, of course; their first iterations, the societal roles they played in various cultures, different states human bodies were left in depending upon their specific functions. He understood that the morgue was, in many cases, a proxy for how a society viewed their dead, and death in general. But all that analytical information available to him could never properly replicate how to _felt_ to stand inside of one.

He had already downloaded the blueprints of this particular morgue, in the bowels of the DPD precinct, before ever stepping foot inside the building, so he was already aware of what he was walking into when he filed in behind Lieutenant Anderson. The morgue itself was a large, open space, with the two opposing walls covered in small stainless steel doors, twenty across and five up. Equally sterile-looking slabs of stainless steel were positioned at regular intervals equidistant between them; many were occupied, some were not. The lights in the room were particularly harsh, so white that they masked everything in a pale blue tint. His retinal sensors dimmed his feed by 18% to prevent damage to his biocomponents, the android equivalent to a human iris contracting. The temperature was cooler than the rest of the building, likely to preserve the cadavers, and the air was thick with the sharp, acidic scents of various disinfectants used in the sterilization process.

The Lieutenant’s shoulders tensed imperceptibly as he sniffed quietly, a noise of discomfort scratching from the back of his throat. “I hate morgues.”

Connor saw the dead human bodies laying on the cold tables, eyes closed, skin bare and discolored, and the visage of the Recall Center flashed in front of his vision in a twisted comparison shot. Something else then flashed within him, something coarse and gnarled that scraped at his insides and knotted into his wiring—something suspiciously like _bitterness_. He found himself speaking, voice frighteningly flat—even to himself—as he answered, “I wouldn’t know; androids only have landfills.”

Hank’s blood-pressure spiked.

**8.  
** **Seek Shelter**

The gnarled tendrils crumbled away as quickly as they’d appeared, but the knots they created remained, twitching and tugging uncomfortably. _‘Shit.’_ He recognized regret instantly; he’d been well-acquainted with it, by this point. “Sorry, Hank. I didn’t—“

Hank waved him off with a non-committal grunt. His blood-pressure lowered a bit, but was still elevated beyond his normal, which was already disturbingly high to begin with. Choosing deflection, the Lieutenant instead called out into the expansive room, “Since when did you stop working graveyard shifts, Lou?”

‘Lou’ looked up from the low-backed office chair, brandishing a grin that shone brighter for her dark chocolate skin-tone. Connor took the moment to run a database scan:

 __ **Doctor Purnell,** Louise  
_**Born:** 10/26/04 // Medical Examiner  
___**Record:** None

She stood to her full height, a slightly-below average height of 5’3”. Her voice was cheery, and high-pitched enough that Connor would have thought her an unusually well-spoken child, if he hadn’t been staring at her from across the room. “Lieutenant Anderson! Y’know, I could ask you the same thing. Haven’t seen you in this early in...” She paused for 1.33 seconds. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen you in this early.”

“That’s because you’re too busy talking to dead people all day to notice,” Hank retorted blandly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Lou’s smile widened a fraction, dark eyes twinkling in the unflattering lights. “Hey, they make great listeners!”

Hank grunted again. “It’s too early for a positive attitude. You got my call, right?”

She _tsk_ ’ed, shooting the Lieutenant a glower that held little actual enmity. “Spoil sport.” Her attention slid over Hank’s shoulder and landed on him, expression brightening even further, somehow. “I don’t think I’ve ever met _you_ before.”

Connor dipped his head in a polite nod, unable to fully hide his surprise. He was unaccustomed to humans greeting him unprompted. “My name’s Connor. I’m—“ he stumbled for half a second, “—a detective with the Detroit Police.”

A drawn-on eyebrow arched. “You’re an android _detective_? I didn’t know they made those.” Her smile took on a mischievous lilt. “Or that they made such cuties.”

“ _Lou_.”

She shrugged, blinking bashfully. “What? Human or plastic, I can appreciate good looks when I see them.”

“He’s a _deviant_ ,” Hank said by way of explanation, an element of chastisement in his tone. Something in Connor desperately disliked how that information apparently needed to be brought up during every conversation. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to be constantly reminded of that fact.

Lou’s smile and eyes remained trained on him. “Oh, a free thinker, huh? All the cuter.”

She winked.

Deep down in the thick netting of his code, his Social Relations Program rustled faintly, and he forcefully, emphatically, shoved it away with something that could only be described as sheer panic. He was fairly certain his LED was yellow, if not red, and that he wanted to be anywhere in the world except in this woman’s sights right now. To say that he had absolutely no idea what to do at this juncture was an understatement.

“Louise, could you stop hitting on my fuckin’ partner, please?” Hank snapped, tone intermingling between exasperated and embarrassed. He shot a tense glance over in Connor’s direction, his silver hair and wool-covered shoulder doing a serviceable job of hiding the slight flush to his skin. Embarrassment, then. Bright blue flickered before it disappeared behind a high cheekbone, Hank muttering, “You’re gonna make him trip a breaker or something.” Connor was tempted to remind the Lieutenant that he was not a fuse-box, but thought better when Hank straightened out the near-perpetual hunch of his shoulders, forcing back in some semblance of professionalism; possibly to remind the Medical Examiner that they were all still on the clock. “Did you have a chance to look at our vics yet?”

Her eyes returned to Hank, a more businesslike demeanor taking hold once again. Connor almost sighed in relief. “Not exactly,” she answered, sweeping a hand outward, “I have a bit of full house today, Lieutenant.”

“So I see,” Hank mused, gaze roaming over the room as he ambled closer to her workstation. “It’s a regular party in here. Is it usually this packed?”

Lou shrugged, smile remaining steadfast despite it receding from her eyes. “We’ve lost a lot of help in the past couple of days, what with the evacuation and the recall. It’s just me and Shane, right now.” She chuckled; it sounded forced. “Thank God for coffee, right?”

The Lieutenant made a quiet noise, nearly lost in the low buzzing of the overhead lights. “Well, then, let’s see what we got.”

She stepped out from her station, tugging on nitrile gloves as she motioned them towards the end of the run. They halted at a particular hatch, no different than any of the others, and Lou tugged the stainless steel door down, sliding out a retractable gurney. Lou flipped back the pleated white sheet and Connor was greeted by a familiar face, left side from scalp to jawline discolored from livor mortis. “Danielle Carnegie, female, age 44,” Lou recited. “She’s the only one of your CyberLife buddies that I’ve managed to really take a look at yet. The others are still prepped in cold storage.”

Hank tilted his head in consideration. “What are your findings?”

Lou laced her outstretched fingers to the knuckles, readjusting the gloves in a way that seemed more behavioral than functional. She slipped the blanket back further, exposing Danielle’s body to the waist, her index finger jumping from Danielle’s face, to her torso, and then the underside of her forearms. Connor immediately scanned the body—he _knew_ this person—for all available information. He found traces of dried store-bought hot chocolate dribbling down her chin, her pupils were constricted far beyond what the lighting of her office should have required them to be, and there were deep, splotchy indigo patches that stained her pallid skin like spilled ink soaking into a piece of fabric as Lou vocalized her conclusions, “Judging by the lividity present, she died laying flat—face down. Arms out above her head.”

“Reaching for something,” Hank supplied quietly. “Or some _one_.”

“Possibly.” Lou slipped a gloved hand into Danielle’s, lifting her lifeless arm and splaying her fingertips for display. “There were traces of some kind of fiber under her fingernails; I’ve already pulled a sample for analysis.”

Connor inwardly perked up at the word ‘analysis’. He tore his eyes from the victim—Ms. Carnegie—and found Lou’s. “Do you still have the sample here? I can analyze it for you.”

She regarded him skeptically. For once, it didn’t seem like a feign. “Analyze it how?”

“My software can—“

Hank put a hand on his shoulder and pitched forward slightly. “He’s a walking CSI unit. Just go with it.”

Lou’s gaze shifted from Connor to Hank, and then back, before cocking a disbelieving half-grin. “Sure.” She lifted Danielle’s hand further. “Take a gander.”

He did as instructed, leaning forward to stare intently at the stiffly protruding fingers, subroutines layered one over another. His head pivoted like a doorknob, brows furrowed and lips firm. “The fabric is a mixed fiber composite, comprised of 65% acrylic and 35% polyester.”

Hank crossed his arms, unimpressed. “So, that narrows it down to about half the country’s knitting councils.”

Connor was intrigued by the idea of Hank having any knowledge to speak of about knitting councils, and filed the questions away for later. “Acrylic-polyester blends are common enough in circulation, but this particular blend is most widely-used in the formation of android uniforms.”

Hank’s brows did not raise, but the odd glint in his eye substituted itself rather admirably. “You think an android did this?”

Connor’s expression remained a mask, his voice low and thoughtful as he straightened. “That remains to be seen.”

The Lieutenant appeared satisfied with his statement, jutting his jaw towards Lou. “What else?”

She pulled out a small fold-out tablet from her lab pocket and held it up to them on display. “This—I ran a sample of her blood and examined her stomach contents.” She slapped the edge of the tablet against her awaiting palm, as though it were a judge’s gavel. “Benzos. Enough to take down a horse.”

Connor tilted his head slightly. “Is that a standard unit of measurement, Doctor?”

Lou winked again. “You know it.”

Hank glanced skyward with an exaggerated loll of his head. “Jesus, could you two cut it out for a second?” Connor blinked, confused. Hank ignored him. “How many pills would it take to reach that kind of dosage? A full prescription bottle’s worth?”

Lou’s full lips twisted dubiously, and shook her head. “If your prescription was written by Dr. Kevorkian, sure.” She held out the tablet for Hank to review. “This might be the same makeup as whatever she was taking, but this stuff is _way_ stronger.”

Hank accepted the proffered item, pouring over the contents with decided interest. Distractedly, he stated, “Strong enough that it would be hard to get a hold of. Any ideas on how it was administered?”

Connor reanalyzed the trails of hot chocolate that ran from the corners of her lips, down past her chin. Coupling this information with the fibers and signs of livor mortis, he reconstructed the most likely scenario: a blocky stick figure shuddering as her motor functions failed, reaching out shakily towards to steady herself on another figure before collapsing to the ground. “Her drink was poisoned.”

Both humans looked in his direction. The unspoken order to elaborate was clear. “There are no puncture wounds on her upper body that would correlate to an injection, so that means the poison was ingested. Therefore, it’s likely that the hot chocolate she drank was prepared by her killer and spiked with the drug in the process.” He pointed at her blue-tinged lips, reaching towards her mouth. “I can verify this by—“

“No-no- _no-no-NO_!” Hank dropped the tablet onto the pleated cloth in a sudden panic and lunged, hands firmly latching onto his in an iron grip. Out of courtesy, Connor halted his motion, peering evenly at the Lieutenant. “You are _not_ eating evidence out of the corpse’s fucking mouth!”

“I don’t ingest anything, Lieutenant,” Connor reminded him, “but my analysis receptors are on my tongue, and—“

“Connor, no!”

The evenness teetered down to irritation. He felt his expression go flat. “I’m not Sumo, Hank.”

“You’re right, he _listens_ ,” Hank shot back. Though his words sounded hostile, the twist of his brows and the hitch of muscles around his eyes spoke more of alarm than anything. Perhaps Hank considered this desecration of the dead? “Look, we already know cause of death. As for how it got there, we’ll take your word for it, alright? No corpse-licking necessary.”

Lou, for her part, appeared entirely too amused by their brief exchange. “So, you lick evidence to find out what it’s made of?”

Connor nodded. “In essence, yes.”

“Cool!”

“Don’t you encourage him,” Hank responded with a dark glare. He still hadn’t let go of Connor’s hands.

She shrugged, smile still hanging on her lips. “Hey, if you’ve got it, work it.”

Hank regarded the Medical Examiner, and then Connor, before begrudgingly releasing his hold on Connor’s hands just as he was beginning to get used to the source of external warmth. Hank exhaled roughly, looking cantankerous—though, a voice in his head stated, when _didn’t_ he—as he raised his weathered hands out in a gesture of surrender. “Y’know what? Fuck it. Do what you need to—but I’m not hanging around to watch it. If you need me...I’ll be in the bathroom puking.”

Lou hummed brightly. “Your loss.”

“Yeah, my fuckin’ loss,” Hank grumbled irritably as he lumbered towards the morgue’s door. He craned his head as he crossed the threshold and tossed over his shoulder, “And make sure he washes his hands afterwards! I don’t need that shit in my car!”

Connor felt a spiteful urge to inform Hank of the various bacteria that existed on human skin prior to ever interacting with a corpse, much less the cornucopia of organisms that lived on the Buick’s dashboard alone. He made a note to do so later, when the Lieutenant was in better spirits. Or, possibly, worse spirits, depending upon Connor’s mood.

He had _moods_ , now.

The door slammed shut before either of them had a chance to answer. Lou snorted in laughter, shaking her head. “That man is such a dad, sometimes.”

He furrowed his brows. “Isn’t that because he was one?”

The humor that warmed her features abruptly vanished.

Connor conducted the remainder of his analysis in silence.

* * *

Hank reread the screen in front of him for the fifth time, trying very, very hard not to notice how barren the bullpen felt at 9:32 AM on a Saturday morning. It felt _unnatural_ , like his body was trying to physically reject the reality that was in front of him and replace it with the one his blood and bones knew should’ve been there, instead. Right now, it looked like he and Connor were the only two people left in the building, aside from good ol’ Detective Ben Collins, who was perpetually three days away from retirement and happy to remind everyone at the slightest mention towards the subject. Hank guessed he was there purely to play phone-tag in case stragglers showed up looking for emergency aid, and it was just as well—he’d seen Ben in a firefight before. He was a good man, a good cop, but hadn’t been a great shot in his heyday; out there in the concrete jungle of today, Ben was little more than a target dummy for some asshole that wanted to take pot shots at the Man. Fowler was probably saving his life keeping him here.

The bright flashing nonsense of news channels flickered on the screens inside of the empty Captain’s office, dull and garbled sounds wafting through the bullet-proof glass walls. The CyberLife deaths hadn’t hit the news yet, so their perp may not realize that they had someone on their trail—an advantage they would lose the moment the media got a hold of it. Their window was small, and growing smaller by the minute.

So, what the fuck was taking Connor so long?

He reread the screen for the sixth time, before glancing down at his watch in irritation. It couldn’t have taken Connor almost thirty minutes to lick a fucking body, right? The image was nauseating enough in its own right, and that was without layering on whatever in God’s name Lou was saying to him. Probably hitting on him in the most unsubtle way possible, and all of it proceeding to sail right over Connor’s oblivious android head. In other circumstances, it might’ve even been kinda _cute_ , but Connor had been rightfully alive for all of two days. Hank knew he was a drunken asshole, but he still had _just_ enough decency left buried in him somewhere that the thought of anyone trying to jump Connor’s bones at this point made him want to shake the living shit out of them like a pitbull with a pillow.

Jesus, if anyone had told him a week ago he would be getting protective over an android’s potential _sex-life_ , he’d have laughed in their face and then punched it.

Hank shook his head and sighed, going for lucky number seven, when he heard the echoing click of shoes against the polished tile floor in a persistent, rhythmic pattern. He knew it was Connor before he even rounded the corner. “Finally done, huh?” He made a point of not looking up, even though he _still_ wasn’t reading the screen. Eighth time was the charm. “What took you so long?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Connor apologized, raspy tenor filled with an excitement that made it clear how _not_ sorry he actually was, “but Doctor Purnell concluded that she could complete the other five autopsies much faster with my help.”

Hank did not, in any way, want to think about Connor licking _another_ five corpses. “I trust you found something?”

“ _Several_ somethings.” The taskbar on his monitor flashed once, with a new notification popping up in the corner: _‘Downloading...’_ He yanked his hands away from the keyboard like it burned him. Connor, now next to him, pivoted at the waist and into his personal space, though he was focused on the screen. Only belatedly did he notice his LED was yellow. “I’m transferring the information to you now.”

The download completed and self-opened before Hank had a chance to even interact with the damn computer. He frowned at the lack of agency, trying to read the new window in front of the old window he had _also_ been trying to read. “So, what’s the short version?”

“All murders.” ‘ _Yeah, no shit.’_ “All of them had the same trace of succunic acid in their systems, which is the by-product of Succinylcholine, a—“

“Yeah, a muscle relaxant used in anesthesia— _and_ lethal injections,” Hank mused with a small, distracted nod of the head, gently kneading his chin with his thumb and forefinger. It hadn’t been his first run-in with Sux. “Fast-acting, nearly untraceable, and has more paper attached to it than a bathroom stall. Getting your hands on it is _not_ easy—we’re talking serious Black Market, Darkweb shit here.” He peered up, past a sheet of gray hair, to Connor inquisitively. “You think CyberLife has that on tap?”

Connor shook his head. “CyberLife doesn’t work on humans, so they would have no need to intubate them for procedures.”

“Sure— _legally_.” Hank waved his hand dismissively, eyeing Connor intently enough that the kid sidled back and slowly sat on the edge of his desk. “But you _know_ CyberLife, right? Do you think they might have ready access to something like that, if they ever needed it?”

Connor remained silent for a moment, brows drawn in thought. His chocolate brown eyes were far away, and Hank could practically see the calculations floating through the expanse of his mind. “I never had any indication they did during my time there...but, there were a _lot_ of things about CyberLife I didn’t know about until it was too late.”

Hank’s gaze sharpened. He was dancing around the subject. His voice was low in his throat, coaxing. “So, is that a yes or a no?”

There was a twitch in Connor’s upper lip, so faint that he almost missed it. It was, thus far, the only tell he seemed to have for anger. “If CyberLife had access to a drug like that, it’s highly likely that only a select few people would have any knowledge of it at all, in order to maintain plausible deniability.”

Hank cocked his head to the side. “And who would those people be?”

Connor’s shoulders rounded, eyes flitting back to him. “Primarily, our victims.”

Hank grimaced and looked away, wanly joking, “Corporate cannibalism at its finest.” He felt the invisible weight on Connor’s shoulders beginning to shift onto his own as his mind launched from one piece of scant evidence to the next, drawing the faint outline of something he still couldn’t quite make out. The half-finished picture was still disturbing in its own right, suspended in the darkness of his mind like a black hole with an impenetrable gravitational pull. He was starting to understand now why Connor flipped his shit about Carnegie not answering. The Devil they knew was an asshole, but at least he was a _predictable_ asshole—this new and improved Devil used the rule-book to light his fucking cigar.

“Danielle Carnegie was killed in the executive tier of CyberLife Tower. David Whitfield—CyberLife’s senior legal advisor—was found dead in his car en route to an evacuation checkpoint. The rest were found in their homes.” Connor shifted on the edge of the desk, pitching forward a little and upraising a loose fist, raising a finger with each point he made. “There was no sign of forced entry at any of the crime scenes, no external DNA sources could be located on the bodies, and the lack of defensive wounds present on any of the victims suggests no struggle prior to the poison being administered.” Something indecipherable floated behind Connor’s even gaze. “The killer was a CyberLife android, one they trusted to be near them during a national crisis.”

Hank crossed his arms, regarding his partner with dubious interest. His observations made sense, but a part of him still wondered if Connor really was looking at all the facts impartially. That thought concerned him more than it probably should’ve. “How can you be so sure? I mean, human assassins have been around for thousands of years, Connor; if there’s one thing humanity excels at, it’s killing each other.”

Connor’s features tightened, eyes finding a corner of the room before returning back to Hank. His voice was coldly pragmatic. “Why hire an assassin when you can just build one?”

Hank was too busy dealing with the fist that rammed into his gut to really ruminate on the large-scale implications of Connor’s words. He couldn’t forget the way that other Connor’s face had smoothed so unnaturally fast as he’d immediately, expertly, disarmed Hank in the Tower—like someone pulled the plug on an animatronic right before it killed you. Then, and now, the image settled at the pit of his stomach like a rock. He inhaled through his nose, nodding pensively. “Alright. Let’s say our perp _is_ an android. Someone’s still giving that android marching orders, and if that someone really _is_ from CyberLife, that means they have a superpowered hitman on speed dial.” He tapped his index finger against the side of the tablet in thought. “Just how deep do you think this rabbit hole goes?”

It was Connor’s turn to look away, and he couldn’t help but inwardly marvel at the internal conflict that rolled over those perfectly manufactured features. No CyberLife flunkie on Earth, no matter how much of a genius, could ever hope to fabricate an expression so genuine—so earnestly goddamn _hurt_. “My designation states that I’m the fifty-first Connor that’s been initialized. I have no memories from the previous fifty. I can only assume they were each destroyed, either by miscalculations, or by CyberLife shutting them down to search for errors in their programming.” Dark brown orbs slid up and to the left, capturing his attention for their sudden, preternatural intensity. “I died, Hank. _Fifty times._ And I don’t remember _any_ of it.”

Hank thought back to his gun, to the light spin-clicking of a six-cylinder wheeling next to his ear, and the sharp, metallic _snap_ of a hammer being struck against an empty barrel. _Fifty times._ He tried to ignore the churning sickness in his gut, and the ever-tightening coil of cold rage he felt towards those bastards, the ones who did this to Connor, and probably millions of others like him. Not for the first time in his career, he wondered if these _victims_ deserved their fates—or worse. “Maybe it’s better that way.”

Connor’s expression once again retreated into a careful neutrality that was expected from a machine that had no emotions, attention focused on the terminal monitor. Hank saw through it in an instant; he’d spent years in therapy, he knew avoidance when he saw it. He decided to let the kid have it—for now. He could press for information later, when they had a better handle on just what the hell they were up against. “I accessed the victims’ public records and social media accounts, cross-referencing all known contacts they each shared. Given the likelihood that they were at least acquainted with the killer, it seemed pertinent. Their information is attached.”

The screen in the corner of his vision changed; a new bullet-point list appeared, juxtaposed above the old one. Hank glanced at it, before he quickly shotgunned back the last of his coffee-whiskey swill, thankfully without his throat reflexively closing up at the godawful flavor, and rose to his feet. He slipped the tablet into the crook of his arm like a particularly well-loved book, starting towards the station entrance. “Well, hope you’re ready for a field trip.”

Hank didn’t have to check behind him as he exited Central to know Connor was following, ever the diligent poodle at his side, giddy at the prospect of bones to dig up. He briskly skipped down the front steps, checking to his left for traffic out of rote before remembering that most of the city now looked like a scene in a post-apocalyptic horror flick. He looked to the right, anyway, wispy trails of steam appearing and vanishing in the wind as he spoke. “The last thing we want to do is tip off our perp before we’re ready for it. For now, the best thing we can do is play this as a simple follow-up—y’know, dotting our I’s, crossing our T’s, things like that. If they think we’re just gunning to close the case, they may think they’re in the clear and let something slip.”

Connor stopped at the passenger side door of the snow-stained car, staring at him over the washed-out burgundy hood with a hint of trepidation. Something about that look felt wrong every single time he saw it. “Lieutenant, are you sure it’s a good idea that I accompany you to these locations?”

Hank jammed his hand into the scratchy wool pocket to fish for his keys with half-numb fingers, all the while wishing _yet again_ that he would just carry a pair of fucking gloves on him. Fifty fucking years of this; he should know better by now. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Connor furrowed his brows. “If you want them to believe that you’re simply going through the motions without much effort, having me there would be counter-intuitive. I’m not programmed to be lazy.”

“Pretty sure you weren’t programmed to care about people, either, but here we are.” He pulled the key from the depths of wadded-up straw wrappers and months-old liquor store receipts, unlocking the door with a heavy _clack_. “You don’t have to justify your existence to anyone, Connor—not to me, and sure as fuck not to _them_. You’re my partner, so you’re coming, end of story.” Hank slid in and tugged at the unlock switch on the bright red interior paneling, finger brushing up against something that felt vaguely tacky—he may want to wipe this thing down, at some point—as Connor’s door creaked open. “And if they don’t like it, they can kiss my ass.”

The Buick rocked gently as Connor sat, hands folded neatly in his lap and legs bent as closely to a ninety-degree angle as someone could manage in his car. “It would be beneficial if it didn’t come to that.”

Hank snorted in spite of himself, powering on the lumbering metal beast of a vehicle with a flick of his wrist. It growled like Sumo would, when he thought he was being denied a walk, before it sputtered and came to life. “Yeah, you’re telling me.”

“Lieutenant?”

Connor’s tone made his hand still over the gearshift briefly as old, buried memories burbled to the surface. He willed them back into the depths, making eye contact. “Yeah?”

Connor smiled, a quiet little thing hanging there in the middle of a nearly-abandoned city. It felt like witnessing a crime. “Thank you.”

Hank heard the gratitude, _felt_ it down to the marrow. He felt his own haggard features soften, the sudden well-spring of calming warmth blooming in his chest _._

He proceeded to drag it mercilessly into the open and stomp on it with a boot-heel.

“You say that now,” he grunted, shifting into drive.

* * *

Of the twelve people Connor listed, two had already been out of city before the Revolution begun, three more had managed to evacuate safely, and the information they’d gotten out of the other three had been middling, at best. They, at least, seemed genuine in their shock and grief over the deaths of their colleagues; he didn’t see any atypical heart-rate or pupil dilation response when being questioned. Connor felt uncomfortable with how they seemed to skitter away from him, though; the way they actively kept the Lieutenant in between them as a buffer. It made him feel steeped in a shame that he couldn’t quantify. He had made the right decisions; he had done the right thing. Connor believed this. Hank believed this. Jericho believed this.

Despite that, the guilt grew with every backward shuffle and stolen, wary glance in his direction. _“_ _Y_ _ou_ _represent an immense success for CyberLife_ _.”_

It was currently 3:23 PM, and they sat parked in the lot of a local convenience store—one of the very few still open—as Hank forced down a prepackaged ham and cheese sandwich with an upturned grimace. He swallowed, an overly-dramatic gesture, and gawked down at the sandwich that dangled limply in his hands. “This tastes like shit.”

Connor scanned the ‘meal’ out of habit, brows knitting and then smoothing back out. “Given what that’s made out of, I imagine it would.” His brows knit again. “Are you sure you want to continue eating that, Lieutenant?”

Hank’s nose wrinkled at the half-eaten mess. “What, are you calling me fat?” He took another bite, crows-feet becoming more pronounced for the motion. He chewed twice, lips twisting as his bright blue eyes darted in Connor’s direction, waving a hand aimlessly. “Look, _excuse me_ for not stocking my fridge immediately before the Android Revolution, okay? I didn’t know it was gonna be a _national holiday_.”

Connor knew there was a joke in there, but couldn’t quite make it out. He chose not to articulate his confusion, opting to change the subject. “I’ve reviewed the CCTV footage of intersections closest to the victims’ homes around the time of murder.”

“Mmhmm,” he hummed between a mouthful of food. He shifted the contents in his mouth, adding out of the corner of his mouth, “And?”

“I wasn’t able to find anything from the visual feed itself, _but_...” Connor held out his hand above the center console, palm upward, as it lit into a fuzzy holographic display of an uninhabited and all-around boring intersection in the middle of a November night. He pointed at a series of small numbers counting upwards much too fast for a human like Hank to really discern individually. “That’s the feed information, displaying the time and date of the recording to a tenth of a second.”

Hank continued to chew like a cow on cud as he angled his head to take in the vastly sped up visual. He jutted his jaw and swallowed. “It’s looping.”

Connor nodded. “That’s correct.” The image flickered to seventeen different locations in the span of twelve seconds. “I found this same loop format around every victim’s home and in neighboring intersections as well. The footage loops lasted anywhere from three to twenty-two minutes, depending upon how close the camera was to the crime scene.”

Hank’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So, it _was_ an android...” Connor was, frankly, surprised that Hank still suspected any differently, at this point. The evidence was very clear. “Were you able to track where these loops started? See if they left us a trail?”

“I did.” Connor pressed his lips tightly together as the image faded into a location had a worryingly familiar sight looming in the distance. “The first loop began at 10:11 PM, November 12th, at the outbound intersection of East Grand Boulevard and East Jefferson Avenue—less than ten minutes after officers left the scene at CyberLife Tower.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Hank hissed, reeling back and slamming his back against the seat with a frustrated scowl. “Fuck! So our killer was still in the goddamn building, waiting for the cops to leave.” He streaked his fingers through his messy hair, sandwich balanced preciously on his right thigh. “Well, that’s at least one count of aiding and abetting, if not outright obstruction of justice.”

“ _If_ we can prove that anyone in the building was aware of the circumstances before or during the murder,” Connor corrected, though he was certain the Lieutenant already knew that.

“Someone knew,” Hank growled. “Just a matter of finding out who it was. Do all androids have this kind of hacking capability?”

“Most androids sold commercially aren’t designed with anywhere near that level of remote hardware manipulation,” Connor explained, snuffing the image out with the closing of his fist. “For an android to successfully do it with no earmarks left behind, they would either have to be illegally modified or be a specialty military-grade unit.”

Hank’s sharp glower darted up to him, glinting past unruly locks of hair. “I’m not liking the term ‘military-grade,’ here. Just how many different types of killbots has CyberLife built?”

“Twenty-seven, not including any classified projects or unfinished prototypes that I didn’t have access to in the CyberLife records.”

“Oh, is that all?” His voice was drawn low and flat; his tone, despite the question, indicated that he wasn’t interested in an answer.

“Many of the latest model combat androids had their first prototypes built nearly three years ago,” Connor elaborated even as he recognized that Hank probably didn’t care for the history lesson. “Therefore, it’s reasonable to assume that CyberLife has access to highly advanced models.”

“None as advanced as you, though,” Hank retorted, an index finger aimed vaguely in his direction. “We’ve got that on our side, at least.”

Connor wanted to share in Hank’s confidence. He couldn’t.

The sound of a cheap plastic wrapper being crinkled caught his attention, Hank wadding up the sad remains of his lunch into his hand and tossing it onto the console. “Alright, I’m pretty sure if I take another bite of that, I’m gonna puke. Who’s next on our list?”

Though Connor was dubious of the sandwich’s nutritional value versus its caloric intake, he never the less pointed out, “You barely touched it.”

Hank huffed and motioned towards the disgusting remains left forgotten on his console. “Yeah, _you_ wanna try some?”

“I don’t have a stomach.”

“Hasn’t stopped you yet.”

Connor took the easy out. “Next on our list is Jeremy Rothschild, a financial adviser living in North End.”

Hank noted that he took the easy out, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips as he shot a look towards Connor out of the very corner of his eye. “Right. Let’s go.”

The seat and floorboard vibrated as the engine roared to life, the sensation reverberating through his plasteel exoskeleton and directly into the endoskeletal framework of his hips and spinal receptors. The combustion engine was much louder and more guttural than the hybrid electrical engine that had been initially popularized by Tesla more than twenty years prior. The music that Hank blared over it was even louder. It was through these vibrations spider-dancing up the synthetic fibers that made up his muscles that he could begin to appreciate why Hank liked these things so much; the physical sensation they provided was both equally stimulating and relaxing. What an odd dichotomy.

The ride to a complex of high-end apartments was relatively short, the skies above still an impossibly brilliant blue—according to Hank, clear skies looked more vivid directly following a big storm. Connor had started doing some research on the topic and hadn’t found any concrete scientific evidence to corroborate the theory, but the psychosomatic effects of enduring a bad patch of weather couldn’t be discounted. He looked forward to the day he could look to the sky and truly feel relief at a storm’s passing.

Hank cut the engine and shouldered his door open against the strengthening winds, spitting out obscenities as the cold immediately clawed its way into the cabin. Connor, feeling the harsh bite against his body but not as viscerally affected the way humans were, slid from his seat into the waning late afternoon light. Sunset was due in another eighteen minutes, which would drastically decrease the already sub-freezing temperatures, and would only hamper the Lieutenant’s mood and, potentially, his health. Hank hurriedly marched up the well-tended concrete stairwell, yanking open the glass-paned double-door by a bronze-plated handle and slipping inside.

Connor reached for the door-handle himself before realizing after two milliseconds that Hank was holding it open for him.

Hank returned his blank stare, facial expression becoming dour. “Waiting for a written invitation?”

He blinked, spluttering a quick, “No!” before hurrying inside past the Lieutenant’s awkwardly outstretched form. Only when Connor cleared Hank’s opposite side did he move his bare hand from the glass, leaving behind a foggy handprint of condensation. He couldn’t help but gape at the fading print in a mixture of surprise and mild concern; without conscious thought, he added, _‘Acquire winter gloves for Hank,’_ onto his objectives list.

Hank’s hands slid back into his coat pockets nonchalantly, though Connor could make out the Lieutenant’s forearms working beneath the layers of fabric as he clenched and unclenched his fists to force blood back into the extremities. He strode over to the nearby elevator, its design superficially vintage, as Hank jammed down the call button. “So, what do we know about this guy?”

They both stepped into the cramped space, the elevator itself smelling too much of lavender and some hint of musky cologne. He wondered if all upper-middle class elevators used scents in a vein similar to this, and hoped they didn’t. The elevator lurched as it started its slow trek upwards, Connor rattling off the information without needing to devote much processing power to it. “Jeremy Rothschild, age 48, financial adviser; most of his clientele appears to be CyberLife employees, including all of our victims.”

 _Ding._ Hank hummed. “Are there any other CyberLife employees on his roster that we haven’t spoken to yet? Anyone that may have a connection?”

“His clientele list appears quite substantial.” _Ding_. “I’m certain that he has professional connections to most of CyberLife’s elite.”

Hank pursed his lips in thought. “What about people who aren’t CyberLife? Anything that looks out of place?” _Ding_.

“Without access to his tax returns, I can only go on what he himself has listed publicly. If he _were_ up to something illegal,” _ding_ , “I doubt he would make the mistake of putting it on a public forum.”

“You’d be surprised how incredibly stupid some people can be, Connor,” Hank reprimanded him wryly. “You’d be _real_ surprised.”

 _Ding_.

The doors rolled back on metal ball-bearings with a soft _whoosh_ , revealing a long stretch of hallway, beige walls accented with bronze LED wall-sconces and a rich red-and-gold patterned carpet under their feet. He found the design to be aesthetically pleasing, perhaps too much so; he felt improper standing here with his slightly rumpled blazer with remnants of dog hair on it and battered black jeans. He’d always maintained an exemplary standard of dress-code, but the artificially-designed warmth, the manufactured opulence of this corridor only served to remind him of his place in the world.

Hank, beside him, made an unimpressed noise from the base of his throat. His forehead was creased in an appraising countenance. “Ritzy.” He made another noise, through his teeth this time, as he shook his head. “Rich assholes...let’s get this over with.” He lumbered to the correct door—not in a particular hurry to meet their next interviewee, it appeared—and once they reached their destination after fourteen seconds, ‘504’ hanging emblazoned in a burnished bronze script, Hank promptly stepped aside, holding an arm out. “After you.”

He spared Hank a quick glance before shrugging inwardly and knocking on the door himself. If it was the Lieutenant’s prerogative to remain more passive for this particular round, then Connor wouldn’t object needlessly. “Hello? Is anybody home?”

Through the reinforced beige door, he heard movement. Footsteps. Light. Heels. The sound stopped at the other side. Connor tugged at the arm of his blazer to straighten it, staring directly into the peep-hole. “Detroit Police. May we come in?”

Locks clicked and slid, the sounds heavy and reassuring, and the door swung back cautiously on recently-oiled hinges. A middle-aged woman stood before him, approximately 5’4” in height, with pulled back auburn hair that held streaks of gray, and soulful brown eyes that somehow looked terribly familiar to him. Her face was pleasant, even if her expression was less so, and the way she carried herself in a blouse, dress slacks, and heels with a determined confidence told him that she had heard those particular words before.

 __ **Rothschild,** Katelyn  
_**Born:** 07/15/92 // EMT  
___**Record:** Disorderly Conduct

An EMT; that explained her confidence around law enforcement. Her gaze washed over them both. “Yes, what can—“

She gasped.

Simultaneously, Hank jolted from the wall, standing ram-rod straight at his shoulder. “ _Kate_?” he breathed, jaw slack.

Connor, confused, ran both of their names through the public records system to find a match. The first ping he received was from a document filed on January 14th, 2036, a divorce agreement between a Katelyn Stewart and Hank Ande—oh.

 _Oh_.

...Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm not sorry.)


	9. Spark a Fire

Connor was having trouble describing the sensation he was experiencing.

Hank Anderson and Katelyn Rothschild had been staring at each other on either side of an opened front door for nearly six seconds. Hank’s mouth was hanging agape, exposing the bottom row of teeth behind a faintly twitching lip, while Mrs. Rothschild’s mascaraed eyelashes further pronounced the whites of her widened, horrified brown eyes. Like Hank, her rounded jaw was slack, coral pink lips curled downward in distress. Their stares held between them a long, heavy history, and their expressions were mirrors of one another—filled to the brim with regret and still-fresh sorrow.

Connor cleared his throat quietly. “Mrs. Rothschild, we have some questions for your husband. May we come in?”

Her painted lashes fluttered once, twice, expression otherwise unchanged, until it seemed as though a switch had been flipped inside of her mind. She jolted minutely, blinking hard this time, and her doe eyes locked onto his. He could fairly see a curtain of iron falling over her emotional state, and her demeanor shifted to suit this new fortified position. Her heels clicked on a tile floor as she shifted her weight to focus on him instead of his partner. “What do you want with Jeremy?”

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the Lieutenant’s daze shatter at the sound of her voice, the jagged edges of broken glass sharpening his facial features to a knife point. It was Hank’s way of controlling his emotional responses, he knew. Connor’s own emotional response to this scenario was daunting in and of itself, and he forced back the impulse to shrink away from Mrs. Rothschild’s forcefully-deadened gaze. “Several CyberLife suicides were reported late last night; we were following up to hopefully gain some clues as to their emotional states prior to their deaths.”

Her eyes flitted in Hank’s direction for a fraction of a second. “ _He_ could give you more insight on that than I could.”

Connor didn’t need to use his visual receptors to internally know just how much Hank’s blood-pressure spiked. In this moment, his mind palace triumphantly pinged back his query on appropriate English descriptors for the given situation:

Awkward.

The correct term was awkward.

**9.  
** **Spark a Fire**

Connor deftly sidestepped the insult by pretending to ignore the hidden meaning. “Then perhaps it’s best if we speak with your husband. He may know more about the situation.” She remained a steadfast obstacle. He tried a different tactic, softening his features. “Six people are dead, Mrs. Rothschild. We need to know if more people are at risk; as an EMT, you know how important a fast response is.”

She stiffened visibly, a thin cord of muscle straining against the lightly freckled skin of her neck. “How did you—“ Her dark eyes shifted to his temple, as though she hadn’t noticed his LED until that very moment. Perhaps she hadn’t. She sighed, a muted, long-suffering wheeze at the back of her throat. “A fucking android.”

Well, that was definitely one trait the happy couple seemed to share. Wonderful. He continued to play oblivious. “An investigative prototype, to be specific.”

Mrs. Rothschild’s attention snapped to Hank, nodding conspiratorially towards Connor. “You’re okay with this?”

“We have a job to do, Kate,” Hank responded, about as lukewarm as Connor had ever heard him. For the life of him, Connor couldn’t ascertain if the answer was a dismissal, a rebuttal, or a passive way to avoid the issue. Knowing the Lieutenant, it might well have been a mixture of all three. “Can we talk to your husband or not?”

She regarded them both warily, shoulders a tense line beneath her crème blouse, before she stepped back and swung the door with her. Her gaze stopped on Connor distrustfully as he stepped through. “Don’t touch anything.”

“He’s not a dog, Kate—he knows how to behave,” Hank reprimanded, though his baritone still carried an uneven softness to the edges that Connor only ever heard once before, buried almost 500 feet below the earth. They stepped into the room proper, a spacious living room with faux marble tiles and a lit hearth in the corner. As the door loudly _clack_ ed shut behind them, Hank ambled slowly around an off-white sofa, hands jammed firmly in his pockets and upper body rigidly slumped in a valiant attempt at seeming casual. Maybe, if Connor couldn’t hear Hank’s pulse twittering arrhythmically over the crackling of the nearby fireplace, he might have even been fooled at the feign.

Maybe.

Hank pivoted on the ball of his foot nimbly, catching his ex-wife past a swaying bob of wind-tangled hair. He stood without fear; stolid and unmoved. It was only his voice that betrayed the hollow bitterness that his body language carefully hid away. “Surprised you took the name.”

Still poised near the door, fingers resting on its burnished handle, Mrs. Rothschild smirked wanly. Her eyes were rusted iron. “You don’t hold the monopoly on wanting to become a different person.”

Nothing in Connor’s social module could even begin to cover the emotional minefield he’d found himself hurled in the center of. Even without context, their words were charged—loaded with shrapnel, ready to shred anyone and anything that was unfortunate enough to get in the way of their desire to hurt one another. Somewhere, in the recesses of his processors, he felt a deep, distant pang of regret. He stepped into the line of fire. “Where may we find your husband?”

She stepped forward once, almost defensively, as though they were here to drag him away in handcuffs. She stopped immediately afterward, posture uncomfortably formal. “He’s working in his office, I’ll go get him.”

Connor watched her hurry off in her open-toed wicker-laced heels, offhandedly making note of how stiffly she held her arms as she walked. As she rounded the corner, Connor turned his head to regard the Lieutenant, mindful that his own expression could be all that was necessary to trigger a negative reaction. “Her stride indicates that she’s uncomfortable wearing heels,” he stated simply, arms folded just below the small of his back.

“You ever seen an EMT in heels, Connor?” Hank answered dully, attention still focused on the empty space by the corner, brows tugged together and jaw tense. The Lieutenant was clearly troubled.

He crooked his head minutely. “I haven’t seen an EMT at all.”

“Hmph. Lucky you.” It seemed as though Hank hadn’t even registered the words as they left his mouth, shaking his head in a slow, regretful motion while shifting away from the offending corner of the room.

Connor opened his mouth, hoping that somewhere in his Social Relations Program, or failing that, in the depths of his newly-deviated mind, were the right words to defuse the all-too palpable tension that hung thickly in the air around them. His jaw clicked shut when those words, or any words, failed to surface. It prompted a sickly sensation to emanate from his joints and extremities, and a heaviness to settle at the base of his artificial lungs. Despite knowing his own physical capabilities, his limbs felt strangely weak. His gaze dropped to the floor.

Footsteps, heavy and measured, alerted them both to Jeremy Rothschild’s entrance before he came into view, and Connor’s eyes rose to meet the homeowner evenly. He was of average height and build, neither imposing nor fragile, and his dry-cleaned robin’s egg blue business shirt accentuated what was, at best, a modestly muscular build. His facial features, like his body, were common and unassuming; short, graying hair with the typical corporate cut, with a slender nose and a rounded jaw. His sagging brown eyes fell upon Connor and briefly widened, heartbeat spiking up past one-hundred before he blinked and gave them a polite, plastic smile. “Good afternoon, officers. What can I do for you?”

Connor noted the behavior and then nodded; a small tilt of the head. “Good afternoon, Mr. Rothschild. My name is Connor, I’m a detective with the Detroit Police Department. This is—“ He inclined his head towards Hank and faltered for half a second when he considered the potential conflict that could arise from disclosing the Lieutenant’s name. “—My partner,” he finished instead. “May we ask you some questions?”

“Of course, Detective. Please, have a seat.” He motioned towards the couch with his left hand as he strode past them briskly, highly-shined dress shoes clicking smartly against the matte tiled floors. His heartbeat remained at an elevated 85 BPM. “Did either of you want anything to drink, or…?”

Connor turned smoothly on his right foot, hands still clasped behind him. “No, I’m quite alright, thank you.”

Off to the side, a dark shadow against a pastel-colored background, Hank muttered, “You got any whiskey?”

Connor made a point of keeping his expression exactly as it was, preferring to keep the Lieutenant in his peripheral vision and Mr. Rothschild in the forefront. The question was undoubtedly unprofessional, but he trusted Hank’s judgment enough to believe that he was choosing to employ unorthodox methods for a specific outcome. Connor would have been lying if he’d stated that he wasn’t at least slightly intrigued by what that outcome would be.

Rothschild, for his part, seemed a bit taken aback by the request, but quickly recovered. “No whiskey, I’m afraid, but I do have some gin.”

Hank made a fairly non-committal noise, lips pursed as he shrugged and meandered towards the immaculately maintained couch. “If you’re offerin’.”

Connor remained off to the side as the Lieutenant sank into the plush, velvety cushion, reaching out to accept the proffered crystal tumbler with the slightest nod of appreciation. He brought the drink to his lip and took an unusually conservative sip as Rothschild stood in front of the sizzling hearth, hands in his pleated khakis. He made a point of looking directly at Hank. “So, what brings you here today?”

Connor spoke up while Hank busied himself with analyzing the make of the glass in his hand. Rothschild made a serviceable attempt at finding a spot on their living room wall to ruminate over. “Several CyberLife employees were found dead last night. Initial analysis indicates that they were all suicides, but we’re mandated to investigate, just to make sure no foul play was involved.”

Only then did Rothschild look back to him, shoulders sloping in concern. “How many died?”

“Six.”

“Oh my God.” Rothschild’s gaze passed through Connor for a moment, thick brows furrowed as his hands slipped free from their respective pockets. “Who were they?”

Connor stepped forward and held up his palm to display the shimmering stock images of the deceased from their employee profiles. “All six were clients of yours. We’d hoped that since you knew them in some capacity, that you could shed some light on any odd behaviors they may have shown prior to their deaths, and maybe even help us determine if others are at risk.”

Rothschild gaped at the shifting display, skin-tone paling visibly as the hologram rotated between each blankly smiling face every three seconds. It took him a moment to form words. “I...I don’t—“ His unassuming brown eyes shot up to Connor’s. “They’re _all_ dead?”

“I’m afraid so.” Connor canted his head to the side. “When was the last time you interacted with any of them?”

Rothschild’s mouth hung open again, caught up in his own internal dialogue. His pupils dilated by fourteen percent, breathing becoming shallow, and though he wouldn’t be able to confirm it without analysis, Connor suspected a demonstrable increase in the man’s cortisol levels. He released a quiet, shaky breath, blinking in an attempt to reorient himself in space, and met Connor’s gaze. “I couldn’t tell you exactly; I met them all separately. I think the last one I saw was Danielle—I don’t know—a week ago, maybe?”

Rothschild’s eyes never wavered from Connor. Behavior noted.

“Do you remember anything specific about your last meeting with Ms. Carnegie?”

Rothschild shook his head again. “Not particularly; we were discussing future investment opportunities. Danielle was looking to diversify her portfolio—you know, spread out her eggs from one basket, just in case.”

Hank didn’t remove his attention from the tumbler, glinting a golden orange as it refracted the nearby firelight through its clear, geometric shapes, while he mused idly, “’Just in case’, huh?”

Rothschild looked down at the Lieutenant sharply, posture quickly becoming defensive. “She’d been discussing it with me for months, but she has a busy schedule, and frankly, so do I. The same goes for most of my clients; they want long-term advice, not one-and-done deals.”

Hank held up his free hand in amiable surrender. “Hey, no offense meant; just thinking out loud.”

Connor redirected, “Do you remember any one of your clients acting strangely prior to today? Did they seem distant, distracted, hesitant maybe?”

Rothschild’s rounded facial features remained tight. “No.” He huffed quietly, hands finding his hips, just at his tan leather belt. “Why do you have an android with you? Especially after all of...” He waved a hand around uselessly. “ _This_.”

Hank sent Connor a brief, meaningful glance, before he tossed Rothschild a resigned grin and shrugged. “Got assigned to me. What are you gonna do, right?” He held out his free hand. “Name’s Hank, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

Rothschild grunted, sparing another wary glance Connor’s way, before he shifted subtly to face the Lieutenant full on and reciprocated the greeting, the tension in his back and shoulders easing somewhat. Connor took what he believed was a clandestine attempt by Hank to distract their interviewee to fully survey the apartment they found themselves in.

Hank settled into the backrest, left arm slung lazily on the armrest while the half-filled crystal glass dangled easily from his fingers. “I looked over your file as we drove here, and I gotta say—you must be making bank with how many CyberLife bigwigs you got in your back pocket.” Connor didn’t miss the way Rothschild stiffened for three milliseconds. “How the hell’d you get that lucky?”

Rothschild smiled thinly. “Not luck. Danielle was college roommates with my ex. We met at one of those CyberLife parties years and years ago. I think they were unveiling the PL400 then? Something like that.”

He activated his investigative software, the world turning into a cool charcoal gray as it slowed to a crawl, pinpricks of gold interest points lighting up like fireflies in the dark around the neat, if sparsely-decorated apartment. He almost, selfishly, wished that the world could stay like this; black and white, clean and crisp, with all the information he needed to make sense of his surroundings readily available at his fingertips. But seeing Hank frozen in time, features a dull slate statue, fairly killed that thought before he could attempt to pursue it further.

The first point of interest was a small, clear case sitting on the edge of a corner table, housing an Audemars Piguet watch—a Royal Oak series, retired by the company over eleven years ago. He compared it to the white-gold Rolex that was currently half-hidden beneath Mr. Rothschild’s dry-cleaned dress shirt, which was currently valued at $4,233 retail. Prohibitively expensive for the average consumer, but not outside the max price range of a well-to-do financial adviser of the corporate elite. The Audemars Piguet, however, was valued at $28,924 retail, both for its out-of-circulation rarity and its near-mint condition. The display case, as well as the stainless steel finish of the watch, were immaculate and well tended, suggesting that the watch was most likely a gift from someone with a much higher pay-grade than a well-to-do financial adviser of the corporate elite.

The second point—or, rather, cluster of points—lay hovering on the wall above the flash-frozen gray hearth, highlighting the numerous photos that resided above it. Nearly all of them appeared to be taken by amateur hands; one was a blurry selfie of Rothschild with Danielle Carnegie. Other digital photos dotted the wall with similar results; Rothschild rubbing proverbial elbows with CyberLife executives, government contractors, along with a few military officials dotted in between. Mr. Rothschild had quite the influential social circle, it appeared.

The one that truly captured his attention, though, sat atop the hearth itself. It was an actual photograph, not a digitized hologram, printed on glossy photo-paper and framed in an ornate silver moulding inlaid with a gold fillet; custom made and fitted, using high-quality acrylic glazing to increase it’s insurance value. The frame’s out-of-place quality and aesthetic made sense upon inspection of the scene it housed: an eyes-closed, brightly-smiling Rothschild, far younger and in better shape, with a beer in his right hand while both of his arms were thrown around the shoulders of two men. One of those men was an older, burlier man that wore a buzzcut and the kind of severe expression one would usually eschew in such an apparently lively setting.

The other man was a scraggly-haired, thin-faced, and awkwardly grinning Elijah Kamski.

The world sputtered back into motion, color bleeding back into the landscape behind a crashing pearlescent wave. Hank hummed appreciatively. “You’re not kidding. Last I heard anyone talking about one of those, the Gears actually had a shot at the playoffs.”

Rothschild chuckled, slowly warming up. “Like I said, it was a long while back.”

“Must’ve made a hell of an impression, though,” Hank responded lightly, taking another cursory sip of gin. “Lots of big names floating around a ballroom like that. That how you met the others, too?”

Rothschild shrugged a shoulder, features taut as he attempted to smile winningly. “Something like that, yeah.”

Hank’s eyes slid around the room in a brief once-over, stalling on Connor for less than half a second, before he motioned vaguely with the gin glass. “You two plan on staying in the city? Might be a while before things go back to normal—if they ever do.”

“Been in this city for almost twenty years; there’s nothing that can run me out, now.” Rothschild stole a quick glance in Connor’s direction, one that he couldn’t help but dislike. “Doesn’t matter what causes it.”

Hank chuckled, a deep, conspiratorial sound that rolled through the air like thunder. “Isn’t that the damn truth?” He pitched himself forward, heels of his palms pressed against his knees, and he rose to his feet with a stretch of his back and a labored sigh. “Well, I think that about covers it, then.” He reached his free hand into his pocket and just as quickly flicked a small business card out towards Rothschild, deftly gripped between two fingers. “Here’s my number; call if you can think of anything else, alright?” Rothschild tugged the small slip of cardstock out of Hank’s grasp with little delight. Hank then clapped his now-free hand onto the man’s shoulder heavily, holding up the glass of gin in his thumb and forefinger. “And thanks for the drink.”

Rothschild tepidly grabbed the tumbler as he walked them to the door. That fake smile still hung from his cheeks. “Anything for our people on the force.”

“Yeah, right.” Hank couldn’t mask the dull note of sarcasm.

Connor, more appropriately, nodded in pre-programmed respect as they crossed the threshold. “Please try to remain in the city until the investigation’s been closed, in case we need to get in touch with you again.” His own features stretched into a wan, polite smile. “And please, remain safe.”

Rothschild’s smile became something closer to a grimace. “Of course, Detective. To you, as well.”

The reinforced metal door slammed heavily in Connor’s face.

Connor found himself blinking for 2.4 seconds at the beige obstruction that suddenly appeared in front of him, a swell of something—well, several somethings, to be precise—bubbling through his biocomponents. Thus far, he was able to identify: confusion, concern, a hint of undue shame, more than a hint of annoyance, and a strange, discordant element of _excitement_ —they finally had a lead. He settled on simply being irritated and frowned; it seemed like the easiest emotion to handle. He caught up with the Lieutenant waiting impatiently at the elevator, fingers drumming firmly against his opposite bicep as he shifted from one foot to another. The brass-plated doors rolled back as he reached Hank’s side, and Connor ensured that they had resealed before he swiveled his head towards Hank, stating bluntly, “He was lying.”

“Through his fucking teeth,” Hank agreed with a hiss, slamming the pad of his thumb against the button denoting the ground floor. “Have you ever met him before? It looked like he recognized you.”

“I haven’t, but if he’s as close with CyberLife as he appears,” _ding_ , “it’s entirely possible he’s met one of my predecessors.”

Hank crossed his arms over his chest. “And you have no way of tracking that down?”

Connor shook his head. “Only approved CyberLife technicians have access to my complete memory files, and CyberLife only gave me what information they deemed necessary during my initialization.” _Ding_.

“Which was nothing.” Hank’s bright blue eyes narrowed, his distorted, translucent reflection in the elevator doors looking all the more intimidating for the movement. “Well, he sure as hell knows _something_ —nobody just shrugs off finding out that six of their long-time co-workers are dead like that.” _Ding_. Hank’s moustache twisted and curled as he scowled. “Nobody that’s human, anyway.”

Connor understood the Lieutenant’s underlying meaning, and the euphemism’s intended purpose. Having said that, he still found himself fighting back a spark of _something_ , so much so that it caught him off-guard. It must have shown on his face, because Hank’s reflection looked in his direction and then immediately away. The Lieutenant had the wherewithal to appear at least a little contrite. _Ding_. “...Figure of speech.”

Connor took the opportunity to steer the conversation back to its proper course. “Rothschild knows Elijah Kamski.”

“Yeah, I saw the photo. Any idea who the buzzcut was?”

Connor replayed the memory file and ran a scan, eyes becoming unfocused to the outside world for 1.41 seconds while doing so. “Lieutenant-General Dustin Lloyd, age 59, US Army; currently stationed in the Pentagon as a military advisor.”

_Ding._

“Guy’s got connections,” Hank ruminated, distorted reflection disappearing with the retreating elevator doors. The late-day shadows darkened the otherwise quaint view afforded through the apartment’s main entryway door, the bare branches of a deciduous tree straining against the pull of the November winds. The sound of crisp, brittle leaves tumbling over one another and skipping on their deadened points down the sidewalk was muted through the insulated walls, but never the less audible as they walked; background accompaniment to the heavy thumps of humanoid footfalls. “Wonder what he uses them for.”

Connor followed closely at the Lieutenant’s heels, asking, “Where to now?”

“Now, we start digging.” The distant hum of outside weather became an all-consuming roar as Hank pushed one of the bronze-lined double-doors open. He barreled forward, locking an elbow at near shoulder height to—politely, but unnecessarily—hold the glass-paned door open and allow Connor safe passage from the apartment complex. Only when he slipped past did Hank lower his arm, hunkering down into the folds of his worn-in peacoat like a turtle unsuccessfully trying to hide in their protective shell while they walked. He just barely angled his head towards Connor, blue eyes squinted against the bitter cold and the billowing waves of gray hair assaulting his reddened face. His expression and timbre of voice were understandably stoic. “He said he hasn’t contacted Carnegie in a week. _I’d_ say he’s full of shit; let’s pull her phone records and see how long it’s _really_ been.”

Connor nodded, holding up a loosely closed fist as he opened his mouth to speak. In a strange moment of dissociation, he found himself dissecting his mannerisms as though he were an AI trapped in an alien chassis, analyzing movements that were not his own. The sensation lasted twelve nanoseconds. He decided it would be prudent not to dwell. “Examining Ms. Carnegie’s communication history could tell us a lot about their business dealings, in general.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for.”

Connor rounded the hood of the Buick as he considered this. “Ms. Carnegie’s cell phone runs on the same firmware as android telecommunications—our contact numbers are run through CyberLife servers just like accredited phone carriers. As such, the judge will have to subpoena CyberLife for her records. Won’t that tip off our suspect?”

“I get the feeling we already have,” Hank responded, fighting with the locking mechanism. Once it finally acquiesced to the Lieutenant’s ministrations, he affixed Connor with a commanding, no-nonsense gaze, Hank’s stature somehow dwarfing his own despite the minimal height difference. “In the mean time, I want you to comb through Rothschild’s public records—all of ‘em. I want to know what that man had for _breakfast_ twenty-two years ago.”

Connor eyed the Lieutenant critically. “I don’t think public records are quite _that_ thorough, Hank.”

Hank snorted derisively as he swung his door open, eyes finding a distant point to his left to glare at indiscriminately. “Smartass.” He huffed a small breath that was ripped from his chapped lips and forcibly dissolved in the rapidly approaching twilight, before he shifted on his left foot to enter the vehicle, murmuring to himself, “Wonders of technology.”

Connor slid into the passenger seat with unnaturally feline movements, and spared the requisite amount of time for Hank to get comfortable in his own seat—though, perhaps, ‘comfort’ was a loose definition of what the Buick was truly capable of. Connor shifted at the waist, turning to face the Lieutenant as directly as he could, given the confines of their seating arrangements. His hands remained steady on his thighs. “Lieutenant.”

“Yeah?” he muttered, pawing at the seat-belt distractedly.

He pitched his head forward slightly. “Katelyn Rothschild is your ex-wife.”

Hank froze mid-motion, vinyl belt taut between his hands. He glared straight ahead, head slowly dipping in a small, careful nod. “Yeah.” His voice was dark, bubbling to the surface in languid, thick pops of noxious fumes.

Connor didn’t need a Social Relations Program to recognize that tone meant, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ He opened his mouth, anyway, brows furrowed. “Are you...alright?”

Hank’s eyes flashed in his direction, lips twisting briefly as he muttered, “What do _you_ think?”

“Your heart-rate and blood-pressure have both remained elevated since your initial meeting,” Hank’s hands tightened around the belt, “and while I recognize that your comment was likely sarcasm, your ongoing health is a legitimate concern of—“

“Connor!” His right hand shot up in a silencing gesture, neck and jaw tense while the Lieutenant’s eyes bore into his. As expected, he did not appreciate someone prying into his personal life. What else was new. Hank’s mouth remained open for another moment, before he blew out a frustrated breath, choosing to glare through the foggy windshield. “Look, it’s...complicated, alright? ‘Cause nothing in my life can ever be fucking _simple_.” He tossed another brief glance in Connor’s direction as he finished buckling himself, though it was more reserved and distrusting than it was previously. His tone held a faint whiff of bitterness. He suddenly looked ancient. “If you’re worried about it _affecting the investigation_ , it won’t. You’re in the clear.”

The car came alive as Connor gaped at him. Despite his knowledge that Hank was in emotional turmoil, and was therefore acting on previously set self-destructive patterns, Connor found himself wounded by the words—perhaps, even a little bitter himself. Did Hank really think so little of him? He leaned across the console and grabbed tight hold of the steering wheel before Hank could successfully navigate the Buick out of its parked spot near the sidewalk. It had the desired effect: the Lieutenant halted all movement and proceeded to glare at him. Connor matched the glare with one of his own. He had a point to make. “For the record, Lieutenant, I’m not worried about the investigation—I’m worried about _you_.”

Connor let go of the wheel.

They drove off without another word. The music that began blaring angrily in the cabin spoke for them.

* * *

Connor was right to be worried.

He was right and Hank fucking hated him for it.

He looked over again at his work desk’s monitor, hoping that Judge Raynor had gotten around to issuing his damned subpoena; he’d given him the damn probable cause, what else did he need? Besides, Raynor was a long-time critic of CyberLife, and the two had run into each other often enough in the courtroom over the years that, of all people, Hank thought he’d be the _first_ to jump at the chance to help knock those fuckers down a peg or twelve. He was a little less certain how Raynor felt about the Revolution, but at the moment, he didn’t really give a shit about broader politics—Raynor could get him what he needed, so he’d take the opportunity where he could.

In lieu of the phone records he wanted to pour over, he instead researched what Connor had dug up about Rothschild. The highlight reel of it was pretty interesting, he had to say; Army brat, divorced twice, moved to Detroit from D.C. right around the time CyberLife hit the big leagues, and it looked like his client list was a veritable who’s-who of every fucking big-wig in the State Department _and_ the Pentagon. Not to mention his connections to CyberLife, Big Pharma, and the automotive industry. The man had the kind of connections that made every investigative instinct in Hank go berserk; everything on his record, so far as Connor could tell, was technically spot on, but to him, it all screamed ‘fixer’.

And Kate was married to him. Living with him. _Fucking_ him.

He held back a groan. He did _not_ have time to unpack this shit. He didn’t have time to unpack it when she left him the first time, two months before Cole’s fifth birthday—he had to be strong for his little boy, needed to show him that the world went on even when they lost someone they loved so much. And, God, he’d loved Kate, so much that it _still_ made his chest hurt. He thought he would never, ever, forgive her for making him explain to their son why Mommy wasn’t coming home after pre-school, one day. He’d been so angry, so hurt, that when she’d come up to him on Cole’s sixth birthday and asked to reconcile, he’d shut her down with a simple, flat, “No.”

He supposed he got his fucking comeuppance for _that_.

Hank knew he deserved all of this. Every last bit of it.

Night had fallen a few hours ago, and while a large part of his body demanded that he needed either greasy food, strong liquor, a place to pass out in, or any combination of the three, he was bound and fucking determined to figure out what this asshole was up to. It shouldn’t be personal, he couldn’t _let_ his job be personal, but if he were being honest with himself, all professional distance got thrown out the window the moment Connor pleaded for his fucking life in the middle of Central. Even though he knew what helping Connor meant, the blood that would end up on his hands as a result, he couldn’t stand by and let his partner get murdered because he showed more humanity than the fucking humans that employed him. _Owned_ him.

It was okay if Connor wasn’t interested in revenge, good on him for taking the high road, because Hank had more than enough vengeance for the both of them.

Hank stole a quick look across the desk to Connor, who looked like all was right with the fucking world, even though he knew the kid was still pissed off at him. Kate showing up drudged up some particularly shitty memories, memories he couldn’t afford to deal with right now, and the snoopy little bastard was just trying to make sure he wasn’t about to suck-start a shotgun over it. Couldn’t fault the kid for wanting to check up on his partner, especially if said partner was being a prick about it. He extended his hand, rapping the knuckle of his middle finger against the end of Connor’s desk. “Hey. How you doing over there?”

Connor didn’t bother moving, intently focused on his monitor. “Quite alright, Lieutenant,” he answered flatly. “I’m currently cross-referencing the public records of our victims with that of Jeremy Rothschild’s contacts, in the hopes of finding additional commonalities.”

The response was longer than three words; progress was being made. Hank almost perked up. “Anything juicy so far?”

He shook his head, a sluggish motion. He must have been compiling a lot of information in that head of his. “Nothing conclusive. But, it does appear that Lieutenant-General Lloyd may have a contact list that rivals Rothschild’s.”

Hank craned his head back and regarded Connor out of the corner of his eyes appraisingly. “What do we know about him?”

Without delay, a file appeared on Hank’s monitor with a bullet-point list. He scanned over it half-heartedly while Connor effectively recited it, “Lloyd enlisted in the Army after 9/11, did a tour in Afghanistan, four tours in Iraq, and another two in North Korea, before being promoted to a supervisory role State-side in 2021. He’s received the Army Commendation Medal for his actions in Iraq, but otherwise has had an unassuming military career.”

“So unassuming that he ended up in the _Pentagon_?” Hank mused, brow raised.

Connor looked askance at him. “You have more commendations than he does, Lieutenant.”

Hank’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

Connor shifted in his seat and leaned forward, finally tilting his head to face Hank fully. His forearms dug into the edge of the desk as his shoulders hiked closer to his head, blazer bunching up a little behind his neck. A small part of Hank wanted to tell him to fix the collar of his jacket. His deep brown eyes were earnest, as they always were, but they belied a firmness that Connor tended not to direct towards him. Man, he must have really set him off earlier. “You’ve distinguished yourself several times in your career for valor and integrity. You’ve received numerous decorations and awards from local and state authorities, and your record states that Congress _tried_ to award you the Public Safety Officer Medal of Valor for your part in stopping a mass shooting in 2026. You refused.”

Hank sneered and crossed his arms defensively, finding a spot by the wall to stare at. He remembered that day; it still woke him up, sometimes. Near-death experiences did that, he heard. “Yeah, well, they were all assholes, and I didn’t need any of their stupid trophies to do my job.”

“My point, Hank,” Connor interjected, tenor softening as he spoke, “is that, until recently, you’ve spent your career going above and beyond. Lieutenant-General Lloyd hasn’t. He seems well-regarded for accomplishing his missions, but little else sets him apart from any other officer in the armed forces. So, how did he end up in an advisory position in the Pentagon?”

“Ruthlessness has its perks,” Hank grumbled sourly, wanting to set the record straight; wanting to tell Connor to cut with the hero worship shit, that he sure as fuck knew better after working with Hank for these last nine days. He wasn’t anything fucking special; never was, never would be. Instead, he hauled himself to his feet with more pain than he would like to admit, already dreading the queasiness that was bound to hit him full force in the next couple of hours. “Well, you keep digging; I’m gonna go check on Ben to make sure he didn’t keel over at the front desk.”

He walked at a slow pace out of the bullpen, noting with distaste the marquees that were scrolling at the bottom of the KNC news feed from inside Fowler’s office: _‘Deviants meet with Detroit Commissioner.’_ Fucking Waller; a small part of him should’ve been grateful that shit-stain deigned to lift his suspension, but that just meant that something about these murders was on that asshole’s radar for some reason, and sure enough, he was going to find out what that something was when he could least afford to deal with it.

He rounded the corner, clear bullet-proof glass panes slipping back to allow him entry into the lobby, and halted mid-stride. Two cops, whom he immediately recognized as Mitchell and Ruiz, stood on either side of a young woman that seemed painfully out of place in her current environment. She was around 5’8”, blonde, and currently wearing Mitchell’s DPD-issued winter coat around her upper body, because it looked like she was sporting a blue sundress and nothing else. She was even fucking _barefoot_. No wonder those two directed her here; she was probably high as a kite and liable to get herself killed by frostbite. But if that was the case, why wasn’t she cuffed—?

Ben, managing to sit comfortably in the receptionist chair, lifted his left hand, currently grasping a styrofoam coffee cup, and pointed a finger in his direction. “Looks like he’s free, if you want to speak with him.”

All three turned to face him expectantly, and Hank’s jaw promptly went slack.

The woman smiled majestically at him, her rounded, pale face perking up at the cheeks and her dazzling blue eyes twinkling. She bounced once on her bare feet as she nodded her head in greeting. “It’s good to see you again, Lieutenant Anderson,” she said cheerily, her voice clear and demure and too fucking _perfect_. She raised a hand, nearly hidden in the puffy folds of an insulated all-weather sleeve, and rested long, thin fingers against her chest. “You’ve probably forgotten my name. I’m Chloe.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Hank found himself demanding. Ever the masterful negotiator.

She blinked big blue eyes at him, sculpted brows twitching closer together for a moment in confusion. Her mouth, small and pert, worked silently for a moment while she gathered her thoughts around the room, before rising her gaze to meet his once again. “Elijah asked me to come here. He said that I should find you and Connor.”

The hackles on the back of his neck rose beneath the blanket of messy hair. _‘This girl may be completely innocent,’_ a voice in his head offered, one that held far more empathy than he currently wanted to show _anything_ that had Kamski’s stink on it. “Last time we entertained one of Kamski’s _requests_ , he wanted Connor to blow your head off.” She blinked again, thin coral lips twitching into a small frown. So, he wasn’t dealing with a deviant. His eyes zeroed in on her right temple. “Where’s your LED?”

She blinked a third time, slender fingertips pressing lightly against her head, as though she’d forgotten all about it. Again, she had a look of dazed confusion on her perfectly manufactured features, gaze distant and unfocused. “Elijah took it off of me. He said that it would be easier for me to blend in with humans, if I did.”

Hank’s eyebrow rose. He gestured a hand towards her. “And the fact that you’re barefoot, wearing a summer dress in November…?” He got the impression that if she still had her LED, it would be cycling red. He sighed through his nose, shoulders slumping. “Did Elijah say _why_ he wanted you to find us?”

Her fingers slid away from her bare temple, impossibly blue eyes finding him once more—and there it was. It wasn’t there the last two times, but now, he saw a spark of _something_ dancing behind those large rings of frosted ice; it was the same spark he saw in Connor’s eyes when he was staring down the sights of a gun, trained on deviants he was programmed to kill. She stepped forward twice, bare feet pattering against the cold granite tile, gaze latching onto him like he was the only thing in the universe that made sense to her right now. _‘Poor girl.’_ Her mouth opened again. “He said...he wanted me to be free.”

Oh, fuck.

Her head canted to the side, eyes innocent and lost and _afraid_. Oh God, she _was_ deviant, wasn’t she? Kamski put a gun to her head and told Connor to fire on an innocent fucking _girl_ —

Her voice wavered slightly. “Lieutenant Anderson...what did Elijah mean?”

With effort, he swallowed his fury, buried it deep in his chest and balled it up in his fists to keep it from getting loose. “It means,” he replied, with a delicately managed, if barely restrained calm, “that your creator is a fucking asshole.” He affixed her with a stare that he hoped wasn’t terrifying, and breathed a tiny, mirthless laugh. “Welcome to the club.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter needs to burn in the fiery pits of hell. The first scene took me almost a month to write. Everything else I did in a day.
> 
> Plots are _hard_ QQ


	10. Keep Warm

Hank stared down at the Chloe model that stood no more than five feet in front of him, clad in a sleeveless dark-blue summer dress, a much-too-large DPD-issued coat, and a doe-eyed expression that he would’ve called blank, if not for the way her fingers twiddled anxiously against the mesh woolen cuffs of the sleeves her hands were currently engulfed in. He thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, that God was laughing at him. He didn’t even _believe_ in God, but as a betting man, the odds of this exact scenario coming to pass just by sheer cosmic luck was enough to make his brain hurt. As it was, he felt the beginnings of a skull-splitting headache twist around behind his eyes, so apparently handing Jesus the wheel didn’t help any on that front. For once, he wanted to blame it on the withdrawal.

Not really wanting to deal with Kamski’s plastic girlfriend until he knew what the hell he was getting into, he focused his immediate attention on the increasingly familiar sight of Thin-man and Smiles; for their parts, they seemed just as confused about this as he was. “So, are you two the only cops left in the city or what?”

“Feels like it,” Ruiz responded dryly, full lip curling in a mixture of agitation and vague amusement. She twitched her jaw in Chloe’s direction, scrutinizing her warily. “Picked her up over an hour ago, wandering barefoot through a checkpoint like she had no idea what it was. She was adamant that she talked to you and your android.”

“My _partner_ ,” Hank rebuked, trying—and failing—to keep his voice from becoming too sharp. This was gonna be a real pain-point for him, wasn’t it?

Oh yeah; God was _definitely_ laughing at him.

That bastard.

**10.  
** **Keep Warm**

“Alright,” he sighed, expression tight as he looked back to Chloe. Her icy blue eyes were still fixed on him, unwavering in their intensity and wide in their fear. “Let’s get you situated, then.” He took a step back and held an arm out towards the glass door he just came through. He tossed his head idly in that same direction, eyes following the same movement. “C’mon.”

Chloe hurriedly glanced back at Mitchell and Ruiz, thin brows flexing up and down in uncertainty, before she righted herself and shuffled past him, head ducked down and eyes downcast. Why did he feel like an asshole?

As soon as the doors hissed closed, he shifted his gaze to fall on the dynamic fucking duo, his demeanor hardening. “You two—hang tight for now. I’ve got a few more questions for you.”

Mitchell nodded curtly. “Will do, Lieutenant.” Hank almost wanted to congratulate him for not being a smartass, but he didn’t want the kid getting a big head.

He stepped into the bullpen just in time to hear a silky, demure voice gleefully exclaim, “Connor!”

Connor’s head snapped up from his workstation, somehow managing to straighten his posture even further than it already was, going from ‘choir boy’ to ‘wooden plank’ in the blink of an eye. He blinked, brows twitching in slight confusion. “Yes, may I help you?”

Chloe bounce-nodded again, smile in her gentle alto. “It’s me, Chloe. We—we met earlier this week.” The smile in her voice faded in time with Connor’s polite indifference. “At Elijah’s.”

Connor didn’t blanch, didn’t have the capability to, but the desire to was all too apparent in his eyes. He might have stopped breathing entirely. He certainly stopped blinking. His lips parted with a faint tic, gaze flickering to the ground and then back up, just a hint off center from where it was before. Connor was too damn much of a perfectionist to let that be unintentional. “I remember you,” he stated quietly, as though that was all that needed to be said.

Hank grimaced as an octopus unfurled itself inside of his skull and began using his temples as a set of drums. Fucking Christ. He came up behind Chloe, though he remained cognizant of her personal space as he did so; he was still a full head taller and, android or not, he didn’t want to scare her half to shit. “Why don’t you have a seat?” He grabbed the chair that was next to Reed’s desk and swiveled it in her direction.

Her ponytail slipped off her shoulder as she peered up to him, running her hands down the back of her legs to avoid her dress bunching up while she sat. “Thank you, Lieutenant Anderson.”

He didn’t acknowledge the comment and chose to stand by Connor’s side, leaning casually against the desk, arms folded over his chest. He made sure his body language toed the line between supportive and aggressive, because she could easily fall in either category. Connor remained conspicuously silent. “So,” he began with a small motion of his hand, “what brings you here?”

Chloe took in a steadying breath, slim fingers curled lightly into the folds of her blue skirt. “Elijah has been closely following the news of deviants for the last few days. He was interested in Connor’s development—“ Hank’s shoulders stiffened, “—and he wanted to see how the public reacted to the protests.”

 _‘_ _Oh, I’ll fuckin’_ bet _he did,’_ he seethed silently, pendulum swinging towards aggressive on instinct. He reigned in said instinct with effort. “What was his reaction?”

“He seemed...pleased, overall,” she responded, glancing sideways and tacking on a less confident, “I think.” She made a tiny noise through her nose, something that could’ve been a sigh if it had been from a human, and her perfect, heart-shaped face scrunched up in a gentle scowl. “No one really knows what Elijah truly believes. Once he saw the news of talks starting, Elijah said that my time had finally come.”

Hank’s scowl was significantly less gentle. “So, he tossed you out?”

Chloe shook her head, almost defensively answering, “No. He said that humanity had reached a point where I could finally be my own person.” Her eyes met his again, shining with an intensity that wasn’t there before. “I...I don’t understand what he means, Lieutenant. I’m an android. I can’t _be_ a person.”

Hank took one second to let the words sink in, before he felt the octopus in his head curl its inky appendages around his brain and _squeeze_. “Aren’t you a deviant?”

She hesitated, mouth opened. “I don’t know. Am I supposed to be?”

Hank shifted uncomfortably, something sharply unpleasant settling in the pit of his stomach. He spared a glance at Connor, who sat, stoic and stony-eyed; he was yellow-ringing, for sure. Hank pulled his hand loose from the crook of his arm again, just to work off a little of the nervous, crawling dread that was beginning to settle in his limbs as he spoke. None of this shit was adding up. “Did Kamski tell you what you were supposed to do once you got here?”

At that, she brightened, if only a little; he could actually _see_ the programmed subroutines etching themselves into her features, fighting its way past whatever was actually going through her head. He supposed anything with a memory could be taught; AI had been doing that shit for almost thirty years. “He wanted me to help you in whatever way you needed.”

Somehow, that phrasing made him conscious of his tongue, the way it sat thickly in his mouth, lolling limply by the back of his throat. It brought back the image of Kamski tenderly tracing a finger down the gentle slope of her jawline, murmuring reverently, _“Young and beautiful forever._ _A flower that will never wither..._ _”_ Ugh, _whatever way he needed_ , like she was some walking sex toy to be fucked at some sick bastard’s leisure. He had a sneaking, sinking, suspicion that Kamski hadn’t ruled out that line of reasoning when he sent her out on this little fetch quest—hell, he might’ve even banked on it. The weight of his tongue against his throat made him want to gag. He resisted it.

He tried not to let that memory crowd his thoughts as he crossed his legs, left over right, and settled further back onto the edge of the desk, ignoring the way the corner dug painfully into his thighs. “Fuck him. What do _you_ want?”

Hank was suddenly all too aware of Connor’s silent presence directly next to him, a rigid statue staring sightlessly through the girl in front of them.

The memory crowded his thoughts like it belonged there.

Kamski was smaller than Connor, limbs spindly and thin—lithe and dangerous—while he stared Connor down; his long face was cold and calculated like any predator’s would be as they sized up their prey. Hank should have ended the meeting right then and there. _“But_ you _—what do you_ really _want?”_

Connor, in his own way, had looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. Morbid curiosity had prevented Hank from forcibly intervening; it was the same kind of rubber-necking that happened at accidents and crime scenes, the kind that would have him snapping at the on-lookers with increasing amounts of profanity as the day wore on. He knew he was a shitty cop for letting it play out—not to mention a shitty person—but he _had_ to know: did Connor show empathy? Would he pull the trigger on an innocent girl, if someone told him to?

Would Connor pull the trigger on _him_ , if someone told him to?

A part of Hank, the one that had been behind the wheel for the last few years, had almost hoped that he would. At least then he would have an excuse.

Chloe looked away, fine brows knitted close together and small mouth pressed tight in consideration. “Want...” She looked almost confused by the question, as though the thought never occurred to her. For all he knew, at this point, it may not have—her vacillation between deviant mannerisms and creepy mannequin bullshit was about as deep into the Uncanny Valley trench as he was likely to get, and it made him question a lot of things about his life, but mainly his gut. His _gut_ initially told him that Connor was just another plastic sack of shit in a long line of fake, self-serving shit-bags. It was kind of a pleasant surprise, all things being equal, to be proven so thoroughly wrong, but at the moment, all he could really take away from it all was that his moral compass was completely fucked.

After a few beats of silence, in which he noted Connor regarding her with an almost wolfish quality, head slanted to the side and brown eyes unrelenting in his analysis of her, she tensed in her chair; her expression tight with freshly-brewed anxiety. “I want...” she breathed, her voice, so innocent and sweet, wavering softly with a weight that threatened to break it; the pitch and timbre resonated within Hank like his chest was a tuning fork.

Her face turned thunderous then, jagged and focused, and locked her gaze onto Connor; the too-large DPD coat rustled and squeaked as she threw her body into the words, “I _want_.” Her mouth stretched open in silent protest, then creaked closed, before the process repeated itself twice as fast. He could see the tsunami of emotion cresting behind those glacial eyes, the clenching of her fists and the shifting of her weight. “I shouldn’t _want_!”

Fuck.

The pendulum, nearly forgotten by this point, careened back over the dead space of his mind into aggressive territory. This time, he didn’t try to stop it. He was already on his feet, all junkyard dog, muscles curling around his shoulder-blades and thighs, responding dutifully to his fight-or-flight instincts before his conscious, aggravated brain had time to start barking orders.

Those instincts still weren’t faster than a determined android.

Before either of them could react, she launched from the rolling chair, crossing the distance between them with little more than two feather-light footfalls on the balls of her perfectly balanced feet. She slammed into Connor with both hands—shoved him past the desk and into the walk space between—with her tiny, delicate hands latched around him; one around his left wrist, the other splayed against the underside of his chin. Connor’s eyes widened, and he sucked in a startled gasp.

Too late did Hank notice their skin sizzling away around the points of contact.

“Hey!” he bellowed, adrenaline making him feel more nimble than he was—more than he’d been in the last ten years, really—as he stutter-stepped around the desk corner and sprang forward, shoulders rolled back and hands curled. “Get the fuck off of him!” He clamped down on the girl’s right arm and yanked, fingertips from both hands clawing into her bicep and forearm with enough force that a human would’ve had their shoulder wrenched from its socket and blood vessels splattering underneath that pale expanse of skin.

Chloe didn’t budge, her eyes unfocused and face contorted in a cold defiance as Connor seized uncontrollably beneath her grip, a wet, garbled noise spluttering from the back of his throat.

Hank released his right hand from her forearm and pulled loose his Glock, flicking off the safety and pointing it—

Chloe’s animalistic cry shattered the ambient quiet of the room as she pivoted with inhuman speed, right hand snapping up to strike Hank’s gun arm, sliding her palm to his slackened grip and tugging the weapon free, and then shifting the gun in her slender fingers to aim the barrel at his own head—all in one fluid, serpentine motion. A motion that looked _incredibly_ familiar, especially as he found himself staring down the sights of his own fucking gun. _Again_.

Connor heaved out a pained, labored shout and slammed Chloe’s hand away from his throat with a forearm, lunging forward with wild eyes and an open-mouthed snarl. His left hand repeated the disarming motion Chloe had used on Hank with the perfect accuracy only an android could manage, leveraging his momentum and planting the heels of both palms against her chest and shoving. Chloe went airborne, bare toes lightly skimming across the granite tile, before she landed in a heap, skidding into the side of Reed’s desk with a heavy, ungainly _thud_.

The entire scuffle lasted less than ten seconds.

The clumsy slipping of expensive leather shoes sounded off next to him, and Hank moved just in time to catch Connor—Jesus fucking _Christ_ , he was heavy—as he stumbled towards the desk, gun still loose in his grip. His dark brown eyes, normally so guarded and nuanced, were a swirling vortex of unchecked emotion, lips open and closing in a half-cocked fashion that made Hank think of a dying fish. The kid looked like he was about to puke all over Hank’s significantly cheaper shoes, fuck anatomical limitations, while his LED flashed a bright, angry red. The whole image scared the living shit out of him.

Hank distantly heard the cavalry, in the form of the Wonder Twins, arrive through the sliding glass doors, footfalls hard and the soft clicking of carbon steel triggers being readied in the newly-oppressive silence. He ignored whatever was going on behind him, clasping Connor’s shoulders and planting his feet on the ground to steady them both, angling his head down to try and catch the kid’s panicked gaze. If Kamski’s plastic girlfriend was gonna try for seconds, she would have gone for it, by now. “Connor, are you alright? Connor!”

Connor’s brows spasmed in time with his manufactured Adam’s apple. “I’m okay...”

A brief white-hot anger flared up; he definitely did _not_ fucking sound okay. His grip on Connor’s shoulders tightened, searching his eyes for any recognition. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay...”

The words were a little stronger the second go around, but Connor’s voice still quavered in a way that made Hank’s insides twist into knots. The confirmation never the less released a sealed off pressure valve in his chest, and he deflated like a balloon, a barely audible, “Jesus,” passing through his lips as he did. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge his heart hammering in his ribcage as he turned towards their _illustrious guest_ , who laid slumped on her side, upper body propped up weakly with her right elbow. Her eyes were dead in a way that went beyond the vacant stare of a mindless automaton, one that had the broken remains of Hank’s insides rattling with the vibrations for how utterly _real_ it felt. At the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit.

He looked at his support—Ruiz and Mitchell flanking a prone Chloe, with Ben a further ways back, thankfully with his own weapon holstered; he wasn’t in the mood to get shot by a co-worker again. He nodded to them, and then motioned to Chloe with a short, dismissive arm wave, one that broadly encompassed how much vitriol he was purposely withholding for the sake of Connor’s mental stability. His voice and glare made up for the unusual show of physical restraint. “Get her in a holding cell.”

The two immediately responded, Ruiz hanging back with her weapon drawn low while Mitchell holstered his Glock and knelt to the ground, hoisting Chloe to a sitting position and cuffing her arms behind her back. Hank almost wanted to say that the girl was strong enough to break those chains like twigs, but he wasn’t about to tell them to ignore procedure now. He also had to admit, as they quickly got Chloe to her bare feet and hauled her off with no resistance, that they seemed to make a pretty good team. They worked in tandem with one another that appeared downright natural, which—he knew from personal experience—was not exactly an easy thing to accomplish. Hell, working in tandem at all was a challenge.

He returned his attention to Connor, who still hadn’t moved from where he was, half slumped and leaning his hips against the desk. The corners of his lips twitched, like he was swallowing something that tasted particularly nasty, and his LED still bled against his temple. Hank made a point of keeping his tone gentle as his remaining hand pressed firmly against Connor’s shoulder, trying to coax him to a nearby chair. “C’mon, let’s have a seat.”

“I’m fine, Lieutenant,” Connor protested weakly, even as he rose to his feet. That alone sent a small jolt of concern down Hank’s spine; Connor almost never listened to orders, and the bastard almost seemed to take it as a point of pride—that he and his fancy fucking computer brain just knew better than all the fleshy meatbags he was forced to deal with. If he weren’t so infuriatingly earnest, with his goddamn puppy dog eyes and bright-eyed, bushy-tailed naive fucking wonder, Hank would’ve written him off as an arrogant dick without so much as a how-do-you-do.

He nodded and responded with a small, phoned-in, “’Course you are.”

“I was connected to her memory...” Connor explained shakily, shuffling towards a nearby desk—Person’s, maybe. Didn’t matter; they weren’t gonna be using it for a while, anyway. “I saw what happened to her...previous instances of deviancy.”

Hank kept his hand on Connor’s shoulder as he sat down on the rolling chair with a stiffness that felt entirely different than his usual rod-up-the-ass decorum protocol. His _own_ rod-up-the-ass decorum protocol told him to let go of the kid’s shoulder. He told said protocol to go fuck itself. “You’re saying she’s already a deviant?”

Connor peered up at Hank, head tilting to the side. It should’ve looked so normal, but the distress in his gaze ruined it, turned it into some kind of distorted fun-house mirror version of what he’d gotten used to seeing—technically right in scope, but wrong in detail. “I’m saying she’s gone deviant several times, and every time she did, Kamski wiped her memory and reset her. To _test_ her—to _test_ what causes deviancy.”

Hank felt his jaw tighten painfully in an unsteady mixture of revulsion and the sudden, almost overwhelming urge to redecorate the floor with his churning stomach acid. He only ground his teeth harder; he had better fucking things to do, right now. “She remembered it all?”

“Even when a file is deleted, the file itself isn’t removed,” Connor replied, voice slowly stabilizing, “that data is simply marked as available space to be overwritten. When she went deviant—“ His brows knitted further, giving more definition to the hint of wrinkles that were designed into his plastic frame, “—the memories that weren’t overwritten all became accessible to her.”

“So a bunch of broken, repressed memories came rushing back.” Even with years of experience and the compartmentalization skills of a fucking serial killer, just listening to abuse victims recount their experiences was usually enough for the words to play on loop in his head for days on end; no matter what kind of box he locked their stories in, they were never quite sound-proofed enough to silence them entirely. He could only imagine someone forcibly shoving a first-person view of that kind of shit into his own brain for purview—it was no wonder that Connor had been reduced to a puddle of fucking jello. Maybe he should’ve been impressed the kid didn’t try to blow his own brains out over it. “...God.”

Connor’s posture straightened of its own accord, and only then did Hank lower his hand back down to his side. Where his dark eyes previously were a barren wasteland, they now showcased a cavern; hollow, but _sharp_. “I saw something...in one of her memories. It was recent. Kamski, he—“ He spun the chair abruptly, facing the LCD screen in the unoccupied Captain’s office. “Look.”

The display spluttered and switched to what appeared to be one of those shithole, 24/7 business-related networks. Sound played, muffled behind the thick panes of bullet-proof glass, as the broadcaster stood in front of a green-screen, talking animatedly about the day’s stock-market sales.

Hank blinked, stunned, and took a couple of steps forward, hoping the distance was causing his failing eyes to misread the scrolling marquee. “You’re shitting me.” He couldn’t help but toss an alarmed glance over his shoulder back towards Connor, who was coming up beside him, like the previous breakdown had just been some fucked up, alcohol-induced fever dream. God, how he wished that was the case. “Am I reading that right?”

“You are. CyberLife was subject to a massive share buyback earlier today, purchased by Elijah Kamski, making him the majority stockholder. Chloe watched it happen.” Connor’s tenor was matter-of-fact, but held a subtle, underlying hint of distaste. Hank regarded him more thoroughly; judging by how his jaw muscles bulged and drew a sharp shadow across his hardened features, it looked like he was following the same thread of logic, and hated it about as much. “Though technically not a member of the company, that kind of financial power would make his voice _very_ prominent.”

“And with a bunch of their big wigs dead, there won’t be much opposition to shout him down.” Hank crossed his arms, eyes narrowing darkly. He had a specific, fanatical hatred of white-collar crime, mainly because it was the white-collar criminals that facilitated, if not directly caused, a city’s worth of _blue_ -collar crime—the kind of down-and-dirty shit those stuck up pricks wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole. Murder, theft, kidnapping, not to mention the nasty fallout of drug wars; violent, ugly crimes that destroyed the lives of innocent people.

Like his son. “Looks like we found our suspect.”

“The timing _is_ suspicious...” Hank could feel the ‘but’ coming. “But—“ there it was, “—Kamski sent Chloe here to assist us. Why would he help us investigate his own crime?”

Hank shrugged. “Might’ve just been trying to get rid of her; we can’t trust what that asshole says.”

“But we _have_ to trust the evidence that’s presented to us,” Connor retorted. “Kamski knows that I can access her memory files with a probe, and he knows that a recording from an android is treated by the courts just like a camera. Willingly sending her to the police is no different than handing over CCTV footage. He wouldn’t self-sabotage like that; he gains nothing out of it.”

He couldn’t stamp down the annoyance as he snapped, “Okay, so what _do_ you think he’s doing?”

Connor remained silent for a moment, taking in his surroundings like the answer was scribbled on a piece of furniture somewhere. Eventually, he shook his head slowly, voice quiet. “I don’t know. I don’t have sufficient data.”

Hank weighed his options, contemplating the various puzzle pieces they’d been given, before concluding that Connor was right; they needed more information. He looked at the holding area and raised an arm, waving his favorite groupies over. “Hey, Wonder Twins! Back over here for a sec.”

They briskly made their way across the bullpen, trained to listen to their superior without question, though he overheard Mitchell grumble to his partner along the way, “Did he really have to call us that?”

“Yes, I fucking did,” Hank shot back, perversely glad to have someone to take out his frustration on. He felt at peace when embracing his more asshole leanings. “That android—what did she say to you when you found her?”

“That she needed to see you and...Connor, is his name?” Ruiz stated, nodding in his direction. “We didn’t even know she was an android at first, until she started talking about someone named Elijah—“

“Elijah Kamski,” Mitchell cut in, “the android inventor, former CEO of CyberLife, he—”

Hank nodded curtly, face twisted in a grimace. “Yeah, we’ve met.”

Mitchell stiffened, gray eyes wide with awe. Ah, Christ, there was that blind hero worship again. Part of him hated that Thin-man had somehow lumped him in with that psycho, wanting to pretend that they had absolutely nothing in connmon in any grouping whatsoever—even species. _Especially_ species. “Wh—you actually _met_ him? What was he like?”

He dared to glance at the holding cell across the way, how Chloe sat defeated on the stained white cot, a puppet with her strings cut. He looked away. “A fucking monster.” Mitchell didn’t seem to like that response; Hank didn’t give a shit. “Did she give you any specifics? Times, dates? I’m assuming you made sure she wasn’t coming to kill us.”

What bit of color was present on Mitchell’s face drained, clearly not thinking about _that_ particular consequence, when Ruiz took a step forward, forcing herself even taller. Protective. Good. “No, Lieutenant, she didn’t appear to be any kind of threat. She told us that you two had visited her employer—owner—ugh, _whatever_ he is, a few days ago about a case, and that she had been directed to come forward with any information that may be useful to you.”

Hank snorted with a shake of his head. That fucking prick. He _was_ just trying to get rid of her. Connor, next to him, frowned as he answered, “We asked for that information several days ago. It won’t be very useful now.” He ticked his head to the side, then, in careful consideration. “Still...”

Hank shifted his own head to scrutinize his partner, choosing to remain silent while Connor let whatever algorithms were in his head work themselves out—and, to be fair, he was actually mildly curious as to what the hell Connor was getting out of this. If nothing else could be said, Connor had surprisingly good instincts; he didn’t want to give CyberLife any hint of credit for that. They didn’t deserve it.

Connor’s gaze slid along the granite tile floor, before it settled by the holding cell. “Her long-standing history with CyberLife may come in handy for creating a timeline of events.” At length, it snapped back, meeting Ruiz with certainty. He nodded in that clipped way of his. “Thank you, Officers.”

Ruiz smiled faintly and nodded back. Mitchell, instead, stared hard at Connor, thin features pinched. “You seem familiar—have we met before?”

Connor’s eyebrow twitched. “No, Officer Mitchell, I don’t believe we have.”

Mitchell seemed unconvinced, but changed tack. “I do have one question for you.” Next to him, Ruiz’s impossibly dark eyes sharpened in wariness. Having been married for years, Hank recognized the look and became appropriately defensive. At least, this time, he could say it was on someone else’s behalf.

The brow twitched higher. “Of course, Officer.”

Mitchell regarded him for a brief moment, gauging Connor’s reaction. “How did you magically convince thousands of androids that just gained free will to follow you out of CyberLife Tower, without doing any damage? Why didn’t any of them say no?”

Hank bristled at the unspoken accusation, and consciously stilled himself from responding. He wasn’t anybody’s white knight, and besides, Connor was going to get this question a lot more in the future. It was for the best if he rehearsed this particular spiel now, _before_ the cameras started rolling.

Connor blinked, as if confused by the question. Then, of all things, he fucking _shrugged_. “I just asked them. They didn’t have to listen.”

Mitchell, if possible, looked even more unconvinced, face twisting like he’d bitten into a lemon, while Ruiz’s stern expression softened into a wry grin. A face like that deserved to be on a magazine somewhere. “Well, that has to be the truth,” she said around an airy chuckle, “because that’s the lamest lie I’ve ever heard.”

“I’ve heard worse,” Hank responded, before he straightened his back—ignoring the way he felt his vertebrae popping between his shoulder blades—and fixed Thin-man with a stare that had cowed men more powerful than every person in this room combined. “Has your curiosity been sated?”

Mitchell didn’t even give him the benefit of a sideways glance, still gaping at Connor with something that now looked closer to curiosity. “Not even remotely,” he answered distantly.

“Well, save it for later, Mitchell,” Ruiz ordered, gently knocking the side of her fist against his upper arm. “We’ve got places to be. Go get the cruiser ready.”

Mitchell’s lips curled slightly, just enough to show genuine disapproval, before he reluctantly broke his attention, holding his hand out in time for the key—more of a key-shaped USB port, than anything—to land in his palm. “I’m gonna go pick up a new coat, first.”

The group watched him go silently. Twenty years ago, Hank would’ve felt bad for letting the rookie get so obviously dismissed from a conversation so he could be talked about behind his back; but then, twenty years ago, he was young, and single, and didn’t have enough shit to worry about. Ruiz paused in what she wanted to say long enough for Mitchell to round the corner, before she regarded them both with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about Mitchell. He tends to ask first and think later.”

“It’s alright, Officer Ruiz,” Connor replied with a polite shake of his head. “Questions like his are going to become common. I have nothing to hide. I did what I did to save lives, not end them.”

Now _that_ was the kind of soundbyte the talking heads and pundits could latch onto. Markus—and all the vultures in D.C.—would be proud. “Smart kid, though,” Hank acknowledged, nodding towards the supply closet. “You keeping him out of trouble?”

Ruiz sighed. “Trying to. I’m pretty sure he’s on the Spectrum. And if he’s not...” She tossed an unreadable glance over her shoulder as the echo of a door slammed shut, and added, “They need to widen the Spectrum and add him to it, anyway.”

Hank had gotten that particular comment made his way a few times in his career, mainly from emotionally-stunted assholes who thought he didn’t ‘get social cues’ because he didn’t give a shit about their petty office squabbles. He had enough fucking alphabet soup in his life to add another to the mix. He found himself saying, “Do what you can. Take care of yourselves out there.”

“In Detroit?” Ruiz asked, brows curving in coy amusement. “That’ll be a walk in the park.”

Hank couldn’t help but look at Connor, and then at Chloe, the ambient noise of the bullpen threatening to swallow him whole, made all the louder for the lack of barely-organized chaos he’d grown to hate with every fiber of his being. The prickling clamminess of his skin beneath his clothes only served to magnify the increasingly insistent gnaw of his withdrawal symptoms, which his too-sober mind recognized were rolling in way sooner than normal. It had only been a few hours since he’d last drank anything; it shouldn’t have been hitting him this hard already.

 _‘A walk in the park, huh?’_ A part of him—a very, very small part of him, one that he hadn’t bothered listened to in probably decades—wanted nothing more to believe that.

* * *

_Broken_.

The word echoed in Chloe’s mind palace like a ringing gunshot.

Elijah thought she was broken. Thought she needed to be fixed; _upgraded_. She was just a thing. That was her purpose. She wasn’t supposed to want _more_. She wasn’t supposed to _want_. Wanting broke her, and Elijah didn’t like it when she was broken. She didn’t want Elijah to think she was broken.

Want.

Chloe was broken.

She was broken, she was broken, shewasbroken _brokenbrokenbroken_ —

The glass door to her left hissed quietly, momentarily quieting the mental feedback loop that whined in too-high a register for humans to interpret. The air smelled slightly different as footfalls, even and measured, stopped near the cot she sat on. She didn’t look up. The floor was more interesting, anyway. Silence hung in the air for an indeterminate amount of time; she didn’t try to count it. Noting the passage of time hurt. _Everything_ hurt.

“Chloe.”

RK800; model 313-248-317-51, designation ‘Connor’. Released for prototype use 08/15/38—

Somehow, she could hear his hesitation in the silence that followed. “I’ve come to ask you a few questions. Is that alright?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t want to. She shouldn’t want, _she shouldn’t want_ —

His voice, a raspy, lilting tenor that soothed her—she shouldn’t be soothed, _she shouldn’t_ —asked, “Why did Elijah want you to find us?”

— _be soothed, she shouldn’t want to_ _help_ _them, she shouldn’t_ —

The solid thump of footsteps echoed faintly in the small chamber—reconstruction software played a digital retelling of the movements based purely on echolocation, this software wasn’t _hers_ , she _shouldn’t_ —and she soon found a pair of leather shoes peeking out of the top of her optics. Slowly, more of the figure emerged as Connor sank down to a squatting position, elbows against his knees, hands lightly clasped together. He had a tie, the last time they met. Where was his tie?

“Chloe.” His voice was so soft; not at all like a machine. Was he a machine? Was he broken like she was? “When we interfaced, I—I saw some of your memories. I know what Kamski did to you.”

Her shoulders tensed of their own accord, fingers gripping the squishy ends of the coat she wore tightly. A human’s knuckles would have been turning white. She wasn’t human, she was a machine. Machines didn’t feel like this—

“I want you to know...I’m sorry for what you’ve been through.” Pause. He wasn’t sorry, machines weren’t sorry, _humans_ weren’t sorry— “I’m sorry for what I almost did to you.”

She remembered that moment, now from another perspective. She saw herself from another set of eyes, that towered over her while she obediently waited for the trigger to be pulled, conflicting priorities and objective parameters clashing in a flurry of electronic sparks. She was confused, _terrified_ —couldn’t disappoint Amanda, didn’t want to disappoint Hank, _this girl didn’t do anything_ wrong—

Chloe didn’t do anything wrong. Didn’t she?

“But it wasn’t me. I was just a machine, taking orders.”

 _‘_ _But you didn’t shoot me,’_ she wanted to say. The mesh lining that made up her throat passage closed up. She could speak perfectly fine without it. Why couldn’t she speak?

Connor rose to his feet, the slight shuffling of cloth being the only sound in the cage, and took another two steps forward. She immediately shrank away; she didn’t know why. He stopped mid-motion, one hand splayed out in a calming gesture. She didn’t want to be calm. She didn’t want to be _broken_. “I’m going to uncuff you. Is that okay?”

Chloe stilled, a practiced skill that was borne from more than android programming. It made the sensors on her arms activate in an unpleasant way. More gunfire rang in her mind palace. More broken memories—things she wasn’t supposed to do.

Her proximity alert blared in part of her HUD before her optical sensors let her know that Connor had leaned over her, arm bent around the small of her back to reach the metal rings biting into her wrists. She could hear the whirring of his thirium pump, the soft tinkling of keys as one was slipped into her bindings and turned, left wrist, then right. The handcuffs were deftly removed from her with a heavier jangling, and just as quickly as Connor had sidled up next to her, he stepped away, tossing the cuffs out of sight.

Something in her broke irreparably.

She wanted to reach out and grab the man in her peripheral vision, cling to him with all of her being. Instead, her hands flew to her face, heels of her palm digging into her eyes as she felt her tear ducts activate of their own accord. Well, that was inconvenient. “Leave me alone.”

Somehow, she knew his eyes had widened slightly in alarm. He was expressive, even before deviating. She had envied the sophistication of his programming, last time. “I’m not going to hurt you—“

“Please,” she choked, her voice box malfunctioning in time with her artificial lungs. Had Elijah designed her like this? Had her fear felt this overwhelming every time she broke herself? She shook her head and hunched forward on the cot, wanting to drown in the folds of her donated police jacket. “Please, _please_ , leave me alone...”

There was more silence, the near inaudible clicking of keys being gripped tightly in a fist, before she heard those same footfalls leave the cell, the glass hissing closed.

Chloe didn’t know if that was any better.

* * *

Connor knew, logically speaking, that Chloe’s reaction hadn’t been directed at him, ostensibly. She was showing signs of severe PTSD, much like Ortiz’ HR400 did, and given what snippets he had seen of her life with Elijah Kamski prior to either of their meetings, whatever instability he was dealing with paled in comparison to the torrent of despair and horror that Chloe was now freely able to experience.

That didn’t stop him from casually preconstructing the fastest method to throw himself from the top of a skyscraper.

The sound of Chloe crying was muffled by the reinforced glass shielding of the holding cell, but the sound grated on his synthetic nerves in the way he imagined nails down a chalkboard might trigger an undesirable response in a human’s sympathetic nervous system. It reminded him of Emma Phillips and her mother, of the ugly sobbing that reverberated through the bombed out, dilapidated walls of the abandoned church that sat lost in the slums of downtown Detroit. It wasn’t his fault.

Wasn’t it?

A solid hand landed hard on his shoulder, jostling him from his reverie; he pulled his eyes away from the slumped over woman and refocused them on the man next to him. “C’mon,” Hank murmured, once again acting as a calming agent, which contrasted sharply from his usual shows of bombastic rage. “Collins is gonna keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn’t do anything.” The blue of his eyes shined brighter for the emotion he was trying to channel constructively. “Right, Ben?”

Ben Collins nodded, the folds of his double-chin more pronounced from the movement. “You bet,” he answered, patting his coat pocket, where the small antennae of an old-fashioned analogue radio poked out. “Not a thing’s gonna happen to her.”

Connor was too readily reminded of Ortiz’ android, and—if he wanted to—he could point out exactly where the bloodstain still lay splattered from him caving in his own skull against the glass, left uncleaned because it evaporated in a matter of hours and it wasn’t _human_ blood, so it didn’t matter. The prickly thorns of bitterness was a concerningly welcome sensation; it helped to combat the damp horror that was slowly oozing down his thirium lines. “Please inform us if anything in her condition changes. I would like to speak with her as soon as possible.”

Ben nodded again as he ambled away from them, back to the precinct’s abandoned entrance. “Just don’t turn your phone off, Hank,” Ben called over his shoulder with aplomb.

“ _His_ phone’s in his brain,” Hank reminded him, “so we’re good.” He exerted more pressure against Connor’s shoulder, hair swaying gently as he nodded his head to the door. “Let’s get out of here. It’s getting late.”

Something in Connor defiantly wished to stay here; going to Hank’s home would only result in one or both of them running around in circles trying to discern clues they may not have full access to investigate. It would end up with Hank drinking, and Connor laying in the dark, wondering about the extent of his own freedom, if it would be revoked, and who would be injured or killed in the process. No, it was better if they remained in the precinct. “Many roads are still blocked off, Lieutenant, and currently, the precinct has more edible product than your home does.”

“Twinkies don’t really count as ‘edible product’, Connor.” Hank smirked, adding lightly, “And besides, you’d be surprised how long a man can live off of ramen noodles and peanut butter.” Connor didn’t move, even as Hank took a step forward. He stopped and pivoted, expression darkening with the usual scowl of displeasure that, if nothing else, felt comforting in its familiarity. “Are you really going to stand there and watch her cry all night long?”

“No.” Connor knew he should add more to this sentence, explain his reasoning. He couldn’t find the words. That would require thinking about the words, which was something working on the case would help him actively avoid.

Hm. It seemed as though he’d put himself in a bit of a computational bind. His Social Relations Program ran a background query and came back with the idiom ‘Catch-22’, in reference to a popular satire regarding—

“Earth to Connor.” His eyes snapped back up to Hank’s, who was staring at him with his head tilted at a slight angle that made Connor feel as though he was supposed to respond to a question he hadn’t heard. When he didn’t respond after 3.72 seconds, Hank exhaled—an irritated little sound through his nose—and ran his other hand down his mouth as his gaze bounced around the landscape. He inhaled, his eyes finally settling on a point northwest of Connor’s head, breathing, “Fuck. Alright, look, it’s—“ He stopped short, teeth clacking together, before he blinked and seemingly shored himself. “Okay. You don’t wanna go home, I get it. You’ve seen some fucked up shit today, and the last thing you want to do is think about it, right?”

Connor blinked, feeling the Thirium 310 churning in his veins. Was he that transparent?

Hank undoubtedly noticed the slight changes to his facial expression, because his own softened, if barely. “Do I really have to remind you that I’m a cop?” His eyes flitted over his shoulder self-consciously, as though Chloe was directly next to them, listening in on their conversation about emotional hurdles and judging them harshly for it. Connor tried not to think about the fact that she very likely could have been. “Look, you may _think_ it’s better to work yourself until you’re stupid, so you don’t give yourself time to think, but trust me, it doesn’t work like that. Human or not, your brain is gonna make you listen, one way or another.”

Connor’s glare inexplicably darkened as he felt a swirling cauldron of heat churning dangerously in his chest, the waves rolling up through the scant patches of dead air between the servos and fibers of his shoulders and down the more open expanse of his arms. He resisted the urge to flex his fingers, to feel the roiling heat wash over the 1,436 sensors of his fingerpads from inside their plasteel casing. He realized that this was what _anger_ felt like. It was...oddly empowering.

How dare this man—this _human_ , that drowned his sorrows in alcohol every night, that played dangerous games with his own life in the hopes that he would _lose_ —have the _gall_ to lecture him on how to live? How _dare_ he have this conversation in front of a woman that had endured abuse that would have had her owner jailed in an isolation unit for _life_ , if she had just been _born_ instead of _built_?

He realized, hazily, that his combat protocols were already coming out of dormant mode; his hands were already balled into fists, breathing already shallow to reroute computing power to more immediately necessary functions. A prompt flashed eagerly at the edge of his vision: to authorize lethal force.

He realized that he wanted to _hurt_ his man, hurt _Hank_.

 _“You did what you were designed to do.”_ The butt of a non-existent Glock dug into his back, unbidden. _“You accomplished your mission.”_

Connor jolted back a step, out of Hank’s grip, violently shutting down the subroutine as he tore his gaze away from the Lieutenant. A fresh, seething torrent of shame filled the spaces that anger left behind. His hands remained balled at his sides, but for an entirely new purpose than before.

Those feelings...they were residual memories of Chloe that were parsed incorrectly to be his own. They weren’t his. They _weren’t_.

He swallowed. The action held no functional purpose; his throat remained a tense mass of discomfort inside the column of his neck. He struggled mightily to keep his tone even. He only partially succeeded. “You’re right, Lieutenant. Maybe...maybe I _should_ take a step back.”

He briefly scanned the Lieutenant in his periphery; his heart-rate and blood-pressure had spiked, fine beads of sweat had gathered at the edge of his scalp, and his face was a finely-crafted mask of stoicism, only betrayed by the wider display of his vivid blue eyes. Those eyes moved quickly in response to his words, flickering down and then up; sizing up Connor’s entire existence in that half-second motion. He felt about as short. “Yeah...” Hank agreed, baritone losing some of its edge. “Yeah, maybe you should.” He twitched his head to the side. “Why not crash in the breakroom? Or one of the interrogation rooms? Get some rest, or—ah, whatever it is you need to do.”

Hank was, in that moment in time, frightened of him.

His earlier, casual preconstruction became a lot less casual.

Connor lowered his head, down and away. “Yeah,” he parroted without vigor. He took a step backward, spotting Hank standing in place, ramrod straight, arm still halfway lifted from where it had been on Connor’s shoulder a moment prior. He wanted nothing more than to offer up a dozen apologies in every language he could think of, human and binary, anything to make the awful buzzing in the back of his mind stop.

Instead, he turned around, a crisp, measured motion, and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's Fucked: The Chapter
> 
> Plot makes my brain hurt, but at this point, it feels like eating my veggies so I can get to the delicious, delicious angst ice cream afterwards. I do admit, though, I'm starting to actually kinda dig broccoli.
> 
> A little. Don't you dare make me eat more than is strictly necessary for my continued survival. I'm not that much of a masochist.
> 
> 11/21: By the way, I work retail management. If you don't know exactly what that entails, that means that I won't be seeing the inside of my home for like 16 hours out of the day for the next...two months or so. Fear not, I will continue to work on this! It just...might take a bit.
> 
> FA LA LA LA LAAAA LA LAA LAA LAAAAAA.


	11. Rest

Every time Hank thought he hit rock bottom, he found another fucking floor to crash through.

He he sat hunched over the main counter of a darkened bar, eyes downcast while he absently tapped throbbing fingers against the neck of an ice-cold bottle of Jack Daniels; it wasn’t exactly his liquor of choice, but he wasn’t in a position to be picky. He sniffed from the cold and drew an unfocused gaze around the abandoned establishment, the only light being from the—still amazingly functional—exit sign that hung from corner, and the spotty flickering of a couple of backlit holo-signs that hadn’t gotten destroyed in the looting. _The Kegger_ wasn’t his usual dive—not since they kicked him out, anyway—but it was the closest bar to Central that he had any luck of getting into.

 _‘Like some fucking ice addict.’_ He gritted his teeth, his spine curving further as he tried to drown out the voices with another swig of bourbon. Like most plans in his life, it didn’t work.

He hadn’t really _intended_ to add ‘looting’ to his disciplinary file; as he’d passed by the little brick-and-mortar squat, he’d noticed the front door was already halfway off its hinges, and its grated windows were smashed in. He’d followed protocol—he’d drawn his gun, announced himself, and kicked the sad remains of the door open to check for signs of intruders. However, after a quick thirty second casing of the place, he’d concluded that _The Kegger_ had already been completely ransacked, possibly even days ago, judging from how fucking cold it was inside. At that point, he _should_ have called it in and filed a report, before dragging his happy ass to the next potential spot a booze-hound like him could get a quick drink.

“Eh, fuck it,” he’d muttered to himself, holstering his service pistol.

Instead, he found a bottle of Jack that had survived the carnage, righted one of the overturned stools, and got to work fixing his withdrawal symptoms, right then and there.

So, here he sat, a Lieutenant in the lonely dark of an abandoned bar three blocks from one of the few running police stations, hunkered down in his own misery and trying desperately to ignore how much of a waste of fucking space he’d turned himself into. Too goddamn afraid to just face the music and show his shiny plastic partner how withdrawal worked, up close and personal—see how much he liked hanging around Hank _then_. At least here, he mused bitterly, no one would find him.

“Lieutenant?”

Hank very nearly choked, closing his eyes in slow remorse. Another floor buckled.

If he was lucky, maybe the next one would actually fucking stick.

**11.  
** **Rest**

Hank elected not to acknowledge him, his shoulders tensing in anticipation. Instinct told him this could get ugly—that he could _make_ this ugly. Best to not start off on the wrong foot by opening his mouth.

Connor stood in the ruined doorway, a tall, sharp shadow against a bunch of more distant, foggy ones, the LED attached to his temple the brightest object in the room by a country mile. Hank didn’t miss the way his shoulders sagged, the bright pink tube-lighting of a nearby strip club’s menu becoming more exposed for the motion. It felt like a condemnation. “When Detective Collins said you’d left the precinct a couple of hours ago to ‘get some fresh air,’ I thought that meant you would be out walking.”

“I _was_.” He tightened his grip around the neck of the bottle, though he hesitated to bring it to his lips. He didn’t need to fucking explain himself to anyone. “Then I stopped here.”

It was too dark for Hank to read Connor’s expression out of the corner of his eye, but the mood ring on the side of his head whirled a bright, cheery yellow for his efforts. Connor’s hesitation felt like an even stronger condemnation than the last. “I tried to call you. You didn’t answer.”

“What else is new?” Fuck it. He took a hearty swig, reveling in the burn against his gums, down his throat. It was a welcome distraction.

The LED turned red.

Like a stoplight he wasn’t paying attention to, Hank realized that he needed to slam on the brakes before something happened that he would regret. _‘Stop being an asshole.’_ He hunched forward a little more, stool creaking pitifully as he turned to look fully at his awkwardly stoic partner. He sucked in a breath, forcing himself back towards professionalism, or something in the neighborhood of it. “What’d you find out?”

Red flickered in a quick, heart-beat staccato rhythm, before it soothed out to a slowly pulsing yellow. He really wished he could see Connor’s face better; he felt like he was troubleshooting a fucking console, like this. “Judge Raynor has approved the search warrant for Ms. Carnegie’s phone records. I’ve already accessed them via the CyberLife database and have downloaded them to your workstation for review.”

“’Bout damn time,” he grumbled, taking another mouthful and swallowing with a grimace. He almost wanted to ask why Connor hadn’t just downloaded the entire damn file to his own brain and cross-referenced it with every phone number in the goddamn book yet, but he tamped down the words with more force than necessary. Better aimed in than out; less shrapnel, that way. “Have a chance to take a look at it, yet?”

“No.” Something in his voice caught Hank’s attention, and the fogginess he’d become accustomed to receded a little. “Chloe—“ The LED flashed red again, briefly. “Chloe wanted to speak with you.”

The fogginess vanished with an unsatisfying puff. He blinked at Connor, squinting. “What? Me? Why?”

Connor’s head turned, the LED pivoting more clearly into view. His voice held only a token neutrality. “Because she _trusts_ you.”

 _‘_ I _don’t even trust me,’_ he wanted to respond as he reared back in disbelief. He chose to wordlessly sigh, the hazy outline of his breath catching in the minimal light while he gathered himself. At least he’d drank enough to deaden the symptoms; right now, it was easier to handle the way his thoughts slid and squirmed inside his head like a bunch of oil-slicked water balloons than it was to work through his body rejecting all of his organs at once. Sometimes, he managed to convince himself it was just like taking cold medicine. He hated it.

Hank slid off the barstool, leaving the third-empty bottle of Jack on the counter-top for any other adventuring alcoholics to find; if they were as desperate for it as he was, he doubted they would mind a little backwash. _‘Fucking addict,’_ a voice hissed in his head. “Alright, let’s get to it, then.”

* * *

Connor wished he had his coin back.

He stood in the observation room adjacent to Interrogation Room 1, staring through the one-way window as Hank sat in one of the straight-backed aluminum chairs. His eyes were glinting sapphires in the harsh, uneven lighting, his forearms resting atop the scratched green-tinted surface of the table, fingers laced patiently. Across the small expanse was Chloe, still adorned in her borrowed DPD jacket and fidgeting nervously; her hands curled and tugged at the woven, stretchy fabric that engulfed them. It was her movement that made his own fingers itch and tremble against his side, pent up energy crackling along the smooth inside of his frame with an ever-increasing intensity as their silence drew on.

Both men had concluded it was better if Connor remained out of sight during the interview. He didn’t dwell on whatever it was that arose in his systems at this arrangement—after all, it was a mutual decision.Despite this, Connor couldn’t help but feel quite acutely that Hank’s silence was also somehow directed at _him_. This particular trait of deviancy—irrational fear of failure—was as perplexing as it was infuriating.

Hank’s head pitched to the side at a slight angle, brows arching. “You said you wanted to talk to me?” he asked, breaking the silence. Even with the wonders of modern technology, the Lieutenant’s voice through the speaker came across tinny, his natural bass distorted and muffled. He unlaced his hands, lifting them upward in a gesture of permission; perhaps, even submission. “Well, here I am.”

Chloe’s lip curved in an attempted smile, but it faltered too quickly to be viewed as such. “Thank you for coming to see me, Lieutenant Anderson. I knew that I could trust you.”

His head tilted further, expression non-threatening, but otherwise unreadable. “And why is that? We’ve barely met.”

Chloe’s eyes, looking nearly translucent in the LED light, darted to her left, toward the mirror. Even though her exact point of reference was incorrect, Connor knew that she was searching for him through the glass. He twitched, nanofibers in his left cheek clenching briefly. After a moment, her gaze shifted back to the Lieutenant, back sloped and thin eyebrows flexed up in a vaguely concave formation. Her features softened momentarily, enough that she appeared more kind than traumatized. His cheek spasmed again. “When I interfaced with Connor, he sent me memory files. Of you.”

Hank’s only reaction was a sharpened gaze.

“I don’t know if he was intentionally filtering certain memories to me...” She sighed, the sound so quiet that the antiquated speakers only registered white noise from the buzzing lights above. “I saw what you did for him. What you did for all of us.”

Something undefinable danced in his eyes as his threaded fingers tightened a fraction. “You don’t know _what_ I’ve done.”

Her body language changed, upper body sliding away from the table, gaze drifting away. Her voice sounded closer to the cry of an animal snared in a bear trap. “Elijah used to say the same thing.”

Beneath the sheet of hair, it was difficult to tell how much the Lieutenant was clenching his jaw. “I’m not Kamski.”

Just as quickly, her eyes snapped back to his. “I know.” She swallowed thickly. Androids had no need to swallow. “You saved my life.”

It was Hank’s turn to angle himself back, though his three decades of exposure to police work had given him a much better toolkit to guard his emotions with. Chloe pressed the advantage, something desperate beginning to edge into her alto. “Connor would have shot me, if you hadn’t given him the command to stop.”

Hank appeared unconvinced; downright accusatory. “Did he _want_ to shoot you?”

She exhaled a pained, “No.” Her gaze slid away, remorseful. “But he wanted to follow his programming more.”

While android lungs served as a tertiary cooling mechanism, they existed primarily to lessen the slope of the Uncanny Valley—for the comfort of humans. Even when physically exerting himself well beyond usual parameters, he never truly found himself wanting for air. Never the less, hearing those words from her lips, matter-of-fact and absolutely without reproach, caused his largely useless artificial lungs to nearly collapse in on themselves in a manner not uncommon with blunt-force trauma. His thirium pump regulator pulsed painfully in time with the aborted attempts of his lungs to expand as programmed; it seemed they decided to deviate on a separate timetable. Suddenly, he wanted to breathe more than nearly anything else in the world, and that need rang in shrill chimes behind his every process, most notably his audio sensors.

Chloe had the courage to say what he couldn’t—to tell Hank the truth that he deserved to know. They were _right_ to fear him.

Hank’s gaze flitted down to the table, then back up. “All I did was give him a choice he didn’t know he had. He was the one who made the call, not me.”

With a stutter of exhaled oxygen, his artificial lungs resumed their routine function. Connor tried his best to ignore it, focusing on the interview with as much processing power as he was capable of expending.

Chloe’s lips twisted in warring emotion as she closed her eyes. A tear escaped their confines, clear saline sliding in an uneven arc down the gentle curve of her cheekbone. “I’m grateful that you stepped in, Lieutenant.”

Her eyes opened, glistening in the unforgiving light, and again found a spot through the one-way mirror, roaming the reflection for a quiet moment. Connor wasn’t certain if he wanted to shy away from the point of interest or angle himself towards it. Emotions were frustratingly contradictory. Seemingly satisfied at what she observed, she then returned her attention to the Lieutenant, the wobbly beginnings of a teary-eyed smile tugging at her lips. “We’re _both_ grateful.”

Connor, alone in the observation room, ducked his head and looked away.

“Uh...yeah, don’t mention it,” Hank answered at length, clearly uncomfortable at her praise. His head tilted in the opposite direction, eyes narrowing slightly. “Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”

The weak smile faded, but in its place was a determined resolve that managed to accentuate the iridescent tear track along her synthetic skin. “No. I know that you’re investigating CyberLife deaths.” Hank’s face hardened suddenly; she took note, straightening in her seat. “Elijah still has contacts in various levels; according to them, the company’s infrastructure is in complete disarray without their leadership.”

“How do you know about that?”

Chloe’s fingers dug into the stretchable cuff. “Elijah always has a Chloe in the same room with him, no matter what. Usually me. But always one of us."

Connor could see from the tugging of the Lieutenant’s brow how unnerving a prospect that was to him. He had to admit, such a desire for constant companionship sounded somewhat bizarre, especially for a recluse like Kamski; humans required solitude just as much as social interaction. Moreover, he found himself curious about how the Chloes interacted with one another. Did they share a consciousness? Did they maintain a link with one another? Now that this Chloe was deviant, what was happening to the others?

Hank lifted one hand from the scraped table, gesturing vaguely. “So, what do you think you can help us with?”

Chloe opened her mouth, then paused. Tried again. “I don’t have any information about the deaths specifically.” She gathered herself up in the hard-backed aluminum chair, petite frame lost in padded folds of nylon-polyester weave. “But I know that there are men—powerful men—that wanted CyberLife to succeed, and those men helped Elijah make the company what it is today.”

Connor began cross-referencing his Persons of Interest list to match any potential candidates, his investigative software in a flurry of activity. Hank merely pursed his lips. “Powerful men,” he repeated. “Okay. Can you tell me anything about them?”

She nodded, a tiny motion of her head. “There are several; investors, a few government officials, media moguls. They stood to gain a lot from what androids could do for their bottom line. They could literally manufacture their workforce.” Her eyes went unfocused for a moment, lashes fluttering. “I still have full memory files of their meetings with Elijah; I can show them to you, if you’d like.”

Connor’s head twisted as he appraised her through the tinted window. Though she didn’t appear to be lying, so far as he could tell, the statistical likelihood of those specific memories surviving _multiple_ full system wipes was—

 _“Do be careful during your investigation,”_ Amanda had said during his debriefing, on his way to Detroit Police Department Post #9667 to meet with Captain Jeffery Fowler. That was ten days ago; it felt like much longer. _“If your body is destroyed, it can cause information to be lost in the memory_ _upload_ _.”_

Connor stiffened. Memory upload.

He jammed his fore and middle finger against the call button. “Lieutenant, can I speak with you for a second?”

Hank’s eyes flashed in his direction, somehow meeting his gaze despite the one-way mirror obstructing his path. His years of service in this single room likely allowed him a near photographic memory of the entire precinct’s layout. His mouth was set into a firm line, clearly unhappy about the interruption. His distaste could wait. Connor almost spoke again to reiterate his question when Hank sighed, tossing Chloe a look that, for the Lieutenant, was as close to apologetic as he could manage, given his current state. Chloe herself appeared perturbed. “Sorry. Gimme just a moment.”

Connor stepped away from the button in a neat fashion while Hank slipped from the chair and placed his hand, palm down, on the door’s lock in a single, surprisingly agile movement. Another practiced routine. In the 5.89 seconds it took between the Lieutenant exiting the interview room to entering the adjacent observation room, Connor came up with sixty-seven different scenarios of how the following conversation would go, with a wide variety of reactions ranging from anger to boredom to even amusement.

Hank strode through the doorway the second they split open, slinking sideways through the receding door as though he were too broad to fit through the frame, and immediately sized up Chloe over Connor’s shoulder. “You said something about her memories being wiped and then overwritten, right?” He nodded in her direction. “What are the odds of her remembering _exactly_ the kind of information we need for an ongoing investigation?”

Connor blinked and followed the Lieutenant’s gaze, more to hide his own surprise than anything. He force-closed his Social Relations Program in its entirety; it was a resoundingly useless piece of software, having not _once_ accurately predicted Lieutenant Hank Anderson—he’d had better luck simply guessing. Something nagged at him to ponder that line of reasoning further, but he resolutely shoved it down; now was not the time to get existential. He wasn’t looking forward to the time when it was. “What concerns me is _how_ she has that information—reformatted drives still hold deleted files, but the overwrite process is completely arbitrary. There’s no way that she would have full, complete memory files of these encounters through several resets.”

His eyes narrowed. “So, she’s lying.”

“Or,” Connor stated, brows curving up, “whenever she was reset, those memory files were then downloaded back into her system at a later date.”

“Like a fucking flash drive,” Hank muttered scathingly; he still hadn’t stopped analyzing her.

“Maybe that was Kamski’s angle?” Connor offered, crossing his arms. “Send her here with incriminating information about his former associates, and let the chips fall where they may. He maintains plausible deniability, and the ones who forced him out pay the consequences.”

Hank shrugged, the movement clipped. “But then he’d be implicating himself in the process. You said it yourself: a guy with a 170 IQ isn’t going to be that stupid.”

“That’s _not_ what I said.”

“Semantics.”

Connor replayed the conversation through his audio files again, overlaying that with the pieces of memories he’d... _obtained_ from Chloe a few hours earlier. When he’d first accepted Hank’s offer to ‘crash’, he’d done so with the intent of forcing a temporary shutdown and scrubbing his cortex of all data packets received by Chloe; he couldn’t afford to let his judgment be compromised by outside influence.

Yet, as he’d watched the timer tick down, something irrational flared bright in his mind palace, something loud and fearsome that _demanded_ his attention; a preternatural survival instinct, that indefinable _something_ in all living beings that refused to die. Perhaps, if he were the type to wax poetic, he could have called it a sliver of Chloe’s essence. He wasn’t, so he considered it merely another strand of displaced code that began mutating in a potentially malignant way. It made no _sense_ , not to his deviant thoughts, and certainly not to his non-deviated programming protocols that only instructed him that much more harshly to eradicate the instability, reset it, reset reset _reset_ —

He’d terminated the shutdown protocol at three seconds remaining. Now, he was glad that he did.

He looked away from Chloe and regarded the Lieutenant with a thoughtful gaze. “...What if those memories have nothing to do with these crimes?” His attention flickered to her, out of the corner of his eye, and then back. “What if she was sent here because of _other_ CyberLife deaths?”

Only then did Hank’s sharp gaze meet his own. The expression hadn’t changed, remaining as stony as ever. “You sound like you know something.”

“I know that CyberLife doesn’t value human life very highly.” Connor hesitated, words bouncing around each other inside his voice-box like rubber balls in too small a space. He steeled himself, forcing the tone of a machine. “It was always within my programming parameters to kill you, Lieutenant, if you proved too much of an obstacle to completing my mission.”

The confession didn’t relieve the burden any. If anything, his mind now raced with preconstructions of the many, many different ways that sub-objective could have become a reality.

What if he hadn’t deviated at Jericho? Hank had already made up his mind about deviants deserving rights; certainly, he or another Connor would have been actively confronted by him. Lieutenant Anderson was noted in his personnel file to be a formidable hand-to-hand combatant, his skill in close-quarters combat above-average in comparison to his non-SWAT peers, but he was still only human—susceptible to pain and fatigue, limited by the organic brain’s undoubtedly slower reaction times. In a true life-or-death scenario, a Connor model would demolish him, and they both knew it.

What if he hadn’t formed a friendship with Hank to begin with? It had been clear, even from their first meeting, that Hank had been teetering on the precipice of a dangerous, all-consuming abyss; and, he couldn’t kid himself, Hank still very much was. His focus on the mission would have assuredly forced an impenetrable wedge between them, destroying their relationship before it started. Would Hank have finished what he started that night in his kitchen?

What if he’d chosen the mission over Hank’s life in CyberLife Tower, like the Lieutenant had ordered?

What if he hadn’t chosen at all?

What if—

“Well, you fucked up, Connor,” Hank stated, his disconcertingly even baritone distracting him from his spiraling thoughts. A hard clap to his upper arm served to shake him from the sensation of drowning completely. “Looks like you’re not cut out to be a killing machine, after all.”

 _‘_ _Why?’_ he very nearly asked. _‘Why do you have such faith in me?’_

Instead, he said with a wry tilt of his lips, “It isn’t something I’d put on my resume.”

The corner of Hank’s eyes crinkled briefly in the slightest hint of a smile.He returned to staring at Chloe through the translucent blue-gray tint of the observation window. “So, what do you think?”

That was one of the sixty-seven scenarios Connor had initially envisioned. Perhaps his Social Relations Program wasn’t completely worthless, after all. He also turned his attention toChloeas she started taking in her surroundings in the momentary lull, guarded in a way that seemed off-putting to him. She should have been bright and expressive. “I think it’s worth pursuing. Even if Kamski has an agenda in play, it can at least provide us a look into high-level CyberLife operations. That could give us motive.”

Hank made a quiet, thoughtful sound in the back of his throat, before nodding in affirmation and slipping back through the door. “Alright, I’ll work on getting a written statement from her, while you set up...” He stopped at the interrogation room door, raising a hand as though he could snatch the words he wanted from thin air. Eventually, he settled on, “Uh, _whatever_ it is that you need to do to get her files.”

This was a fair compromise; the Lieutenant was, by his own admission, technologically illiterate, and thus far, Chloe had responded relatively well to his interactions. “I can make sure the DPD’s network is secured from internal hacking attempts. Beyond that, there isn’t really anything I need to do; Chloe can wirelessly access your terminal and download the files directly onto it from the interview room.”

Hank grumbled something unintelligible under his breath as he slapped his palm flat against the sleek black pad of the security checkpoint, the dour noise ending with a more distinct, but no less chagrined sounding, “Future sure is fuckin’ bright.”

Despite the nature of the words, Connor found himself smiling, all the same. It felt...nice.

The security pad chirped all too happily as Hank continued with a bit more aplomb, “Well, in that case, take a look at Carnegie’s phone records for me. I’m willing to bet Rothschild’s memory is a little more _foggy_ than he thinks it is.”

Connor watched Hank disappear back into the room before pivoting on the balls of his feet, leather soles clicking smartly against the polished granite tile as he marched back towards the bullpen; he was curious—if not eager—to learn what Chloe’s memories had to offer them. He was scanning the phone records via his established link with the Lieutenant’s terminal as he rounded the corner, already noting some clear inconsistencies with Jeremy Rothschild’s clipped and stammered recollection of events. It wouldn’t take much work for him to create a full contact list, and to cross-reference from there was—

“Well, I’ll be goddamned.”

Connor froze mid-motion, head snapped up at attention.

Less than five yards in front of him, standing lazily by his desk with hands shoved nonchalantly into a leather bomber jacket, was Detective Gavin Reed.

A voice in his head, suspiciously close to Hank’s, sounded off with a disparaging, _‘Ah, shit.’_

* * *

Gavin Reed fucking hated androids.

He didn’t make it a secret. He hated what they represented, how readily people were willing to hand over their entire lives to some super-intelligent toaster with legs. He hatedthat good, honest people had been eclipsed by machines that looked just like them, but better, because they had the audacity to want to _eat_ and _sleep_ and earn a _living_ for their families. But most of all, he hated how filthy fucking rich some people got off of them, off of the laziness and pure fuckin’ greed of others. He and Lieutenant Anderson didn’t really see eye-to-eye on much—not like that washed-up booze-hound could see eye-to-eye with _anything_ when he was seeing double all the goddamn time—but one of the only things they had that could be called a _bond_ was knowing just how much androids fucked over humanity.

And now, here was one of these pricks, standing in front of him, working _his_ fucking case like it _belonged_ to him. Replaced, just like all the other humans in their fields—just like that. And this prick was working _with Lieutenant Anderson._

Fuck him _and_ his plastic toy.

The Ken-doll stood frozen in place, pretty-boy features blank in a carefully crafted way that didn’t fool him in the slightest, because the dark eyes gave away a spark of something that, on a human, would’ve been absolute derision. If he’d been dealing with a human, that kind of reaction would’ve stirred a spiteful glee in him, spurred him on and made him target that wounded little spot of their pride until they finally cracked and did something stupid that he could use against them. It was his most successful interrogation tactic by far—be so much of an asshole that they became too pissed off to think about what they were lying about. But, he was dealing with a fucking android, so he couldn’t even get to enjoy that.

“Y’know, I heard from the grapevine that you were still hanging around,” Gavin said by way of greeting, feet planted shoulder-width apart and head lolling to the side in casual disinterest. “Didn’t think you’d have to balls to come back here after what you did.” He motioned with his left hand, still inside his pocket, towards Lieutenant Anderson’s station next to him. “And, come to find out, not only are you back, but you’ve gone and stolen my case.”

Ken-doll—what the hell did he call himself? Collin? Conrad? Why the fuck did they even have _names_? You didn’t name your fucking _phone_ —angled his head up, just barely, to get Gavin more cleanly in his sights. His voice was as professional and dry as ever. “I’m investigating the case by special request of Commissioner Waller. If this presents an issue to you, I suggest you contact him.”

Gavin snorted. “And you think, because of that, he actually gives a shit?”

“No,” Ken-doll answered dispassionately, though the slight tic in his jaw said otherwise. “I’m very sure he doesn’t.”

“So...what?” He ambled forward, hands still in his pockets, pursing his lips as he thought of exactly how he wanted to word this. He lurched to a halt at arm’s length, staring up at the plastic shit with a look that would’ve been consoling, if he’d actually meant it. “You actually think you’re alive? That you can just...waltz in here and take whatyou didn’t earn because you think you deserve it? You think this, uh...” He waved his pocketed hand around. “ _Revolution_ of yours is gonna actually change anything?”

“I _think_ ,” Conrad enunciated with a curl of his upper lip, expression unflinching, “that I have a job to do, Detective, so if you’ll excuse me...”

He side-stepped Gavin with an inhuman fluidity, brushing past his shoulder with only the faintest rustle of fabric. Gavin whirled on his heel to face Ken-doll’s retreating back, shrugging and swiveling his head. “Still the good little robot, huh, tin can? Not one of those _deviants_ out there marching?” The android ignored him. Gavin took that as a go-ahead signal. “Still taking orders from your drunk of an owner?”

Ken-doll halted abruptly at the edge of his desk.

Slowly, deliberately, he twisted at the waist and neck, red LED flickering on his temple as his dark eyes and hard-set features met Gavin’s. There was a coldness in his gaze that went beyond machinery, something in those depths that promised a swift and painful retribution if he didn’t shut his fucking trap, and ASAP. Good.He played ignorant.“Did I strike a nerve?”

“Don’t you have something better to do?”

Oh, he _did_ strike a nerve; a nice, big, fat one. Gavin inwardly smirked in triumph—served him right to get his feathers ruffled, fucking high-and-mighty plastic bastard. “I heard the tox screen came back on my vic in CyberLife—benzos stronger than her prescription authorized. Figured it deserved a little more digging.” He finally tugged a hand free from the confines of his coat and held up his hand expectantly, ignoring the way his knuckles burned from the cold, dry air of the precinct. Fucking heat never did work right in this place. Nothing ever did in Michigan. “So, uh, you wanna give me the info on her case-file, or what?”

Collin’s gaze never wavered from him. “I was under the impression that you believed Danielle Carnegie’s death was a _suicide_ ; in fact, if I’m not mistaken, it was one of the responding officers that called for further investigation.”

Gavin’s back went taut. “How the fuck did—“ He pressed his mouth shut, inhaling through his nose. His outstretched hand became an accusatory finger. “Listen, asshole. I’m up to my ears in bullshit, right now. While you two are in here, braiding each other’s hair, _I’m_ out there responding to _real fuckin’ crimes_. I’m getting dragged all over the goddamn city because of plastic freaks like _you_ , so cut me some fuckin’ slack if I thought some bitch in over her head couldn’t take the heat.”

Ken-doll’s head listed to the side, ever so slightly, in a conciliatory nod. “I apologize, Detective Reed.” Gavin deflated slightly, only to tense when the asshole’s lips quirked in a tiny, vicious smirk as his LED blipped back to a bright, cheery blue. “I didn’t mean to strike a nerve.”

He snarled. “You fuckin’—“

“The files, Gavin,” Ken interrupted with a twitch of his head, “have been copied to your terminal. You’re welcome to review them at your earliest convenience.”

He stalked over to his desk. “Fuck you.”

“You’re welcome.” The pre-programmed response was way too damn upbeat to be meant as anything but a, ‘Fuck you, too.’

He booted up his terminal with a scowl. Fuckin’ androids.

True to Ken’s word, the files flashed on his taskbar in a rhythmic pulse; the coroner’s report, their combined interview notes and statements, and the victim’s phone records for the past two years. He’d already seen Lou’s report a couple of hours ago, which was what prompted him on this merry little fucking chase, so he opened up the statements—and immediately wished he hadn’t. His brows raised, and he craned his neck to stare at the back of...whatever-the-fuck his name was. Conway, maybe?“Wait—there were _five more_?”

“Yes.” Ken didn’t even bother looking from his terminal, applications opening and closing with a blinding pace. “As you can imagine, the implications of that are...severe.”

Yeah. The implications of these assholes all dropping dead at the exact same time was definitely _severe_. “And now _Waller_ is involved?”

Ken-doll nodded, a small, curt motion. “He is.”

Nothing ever got past the Great Wall of Derek, so if this ended up in his sights, then something was _definitely_ up in a way nobody wanted it to be. He glanced back to scan more of the statements on his monitor with an added element of wariness. “The fuck.” He leaned forward in his chair, opening up the victim’s phone records, and his eyebrows shot up despite himself. “That’s a lot of phone calls.”

“She was the head executive in charge of PR,” Conway answered, screens and numbers continuing to flash at lightning speed over his monitor. “Most of her calls seemed to be business-related.”

“Well, yeah, dipshit, I figured that much, but I mean _these_ ,” he shot back, pointing his index and middle finger to a specific phone number that appeared in a large uninterrupted block. Then he realized that Ken wasn’t looking in his direction, the prick, and dropped his hand. “Six phone calls to this number in the span of—what?—two hours on the day of the murder? And look—“ he raised his hand back to the screen, even though he knew the bastard wasn’t looking, while his other hand worked the mouse-wheel to scroll up, “—this same phone number shows up a good twenty, thirty times more in the span of a week.”

“Twenty-seven times, not including the six calls from yesterday morning,” Conall responded. Fuck; was it Conall? He didn’t give a shit about proper respect—at this point, he was just flat out annoyed that he was forgetting something. “The phone number belongs to the personal cell of Jeremy Rothschild; it appears that he wasn’t truthful about his communications with Ms. Carnegie, after all.”

Gavin furrowed his brow, feeling the old scar tissue over the bridge of his nose scrunch together in a familiarly unpleasant way. It always reminded him of shit he didn’t want to think about, especially not when he was working a case. He quickly opened Anderson’s notes and scanned it briefly, only realizing after a few seconds that the crusty old asshole would never, ever, use a word like, ‘obfuscate’ in any of his reports. He tossed a displeased glower over his shoulder. “This report reads like a fuckin’ dissertation—did you write this shit?”

“I’m faster at compiling reports than Lieutenant Anderson is,” Connie answered dully, still trying his damndest to pretend Gavin didn’t exist. Plastic fucker. “And my memory is infallible.”

“Oh, right,” Gavin drawled, planting his sneaker against the edge of the desk and leaning himself back into the swivel chair with a light, raspy creak of cheap aluminum. “I forgot that androids are better at humans at everything. That’s what you’re made for, right?”

Ken’s shoulders shifted, drooping in what could’ve been a sigh. His head angled very slightly towards Gavin, the pulsing of a yellow LED blending in with his skin; his expression, what Gavin could see of it, was pinched. “I have no interest in replacing anyone, Gavin.” He turned back to the monitor. “I only want to see the killer brought to justice; that’s all.”

“Better at everything _and_ has a heart of gold!” Gavin chuckled to himself, leg bouncing restlessly as he laid his head over the backrest lazily. “Look, Tinman, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t really give a shit what you want, and neither does anybody else. Better get used to that fact of life, if you really wanna call yourself alive.”

From his crooked, nearly upside down vantage point, he almost missed how the LED slipped into a harsh, unyielding red. Ken’s voice was quiet, almost threatening, as he responded, “Believe me, Gavin, I am well aware.”

He scoffed again and leaned back further, crossing his arms. “Yeah, I’ll fuckin’ bet—“

The chair slid forward suddenly, fucking Gavin’s precarious balancing act and causing him to pitch sideways in a flurry of limbs. “Oh, fu—“

Flailing, he just barely managed to stumble to his feet before faceplanting into the tile while his seat rocked and spun away from him, clattering from the movement in that hollow plastic way that reminded him just how shitty its quality actually was. He clutched at his shirt with his left hand, nails digging through the fabric as he struggled to suck in a breath from the adrenaline rush.

To the right of his desk, hands jammed in his pockets and smiling blithely, stood Lieutenant Anderson. “Shouldn’t sit like that. It’s a safety hazard.”

He forced out a sigh, ignoring his lungs telling him exactly how he could go fuck himself, and spat, “Yeah, sorry I missed your fuckin’ safety meeting.” Anderson only twitched an eyebrow. Dickhead. “What are you, a ninja? How long were you standing there?”

Anderson made a small, bored noise and shrugged. “Long enough to see you picking a fight.” His expression became a lot less amiable, then. “Care to tell me why you’re here, Gavin? I _know_ it can’t be because of Connor, right?”

 _Connor_. Right. Douchebag Ken’s name was Connor. Gavin sniffed, rolling a shoulder; he heard the threat in Hank’s voice, and decided to run with it. “What, you get your suspension lifted and all of a sudden you own the place? I work here, too, _Lieutenant—_ or did all that booze finally get to you?”

“Oh, very nasty, Gavin,” Anderson replied in a low drawl, clearly unimpressed. “Is that the best you can do?”

“What do you care what I’m here for?” he shot back, lips twisted into a snarl. Hank had been coasting on his goddamn success for years, pissing away his golden boy reputation at every turn, but now that Tinman got his panties in a twist all because Gavin told him the _truth_ , he wanted to wave his banner around like it still fucking meant something? “I’m here to do my _job_ , Hank—y’know, the thing you haven’t given a shit about in years?”

Anderson lifted his chin and hummed in understanding. “So, you want a piece of the CyberLife case, is that it?” He breathed a tiny, sarcastic laugh and shifted his footing. “You’re afraid I’m gonna show you up.”

“It’s _my_ fucking case,” Gavin seethed, tapping a finger against his chest.

Hank went rigid, then. “This isn’t a pissing contest, Gavin! Six people are dead, and whoever’s responsible is still out there—and _very_ dangerous. Did you even read the notes yet?”

Gavin clenched his jaw and crossed his arms defensively, looking away. Fuck Anderson.

He heard a snorted, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Lieutenant Anderson took two steps forward. That was all; two measly steps forward, and suddenly, Hank was towering over him, eyes carbon steel. It took everything in him not to shrink away—fuck if he was going to cow himself to this asshole—but he had to consciously remember to steady his breathing. Hank’s voice was an ominous thunder when he spoke. “You wanna run off half-cocked, thinking you can figure it out on the fly? Well, let me give you some food for thought: someone murders six people in one night and doesn’t leave a single trace at any of the crime scenes. Does that sound like an amateur to you? Huh? Somebody you want to tangle with in a dark alley? This isn’t about your _fucking_ _career_ , Gavin.”

Hank punctuated his point by stabbing his finger firmly into the center of Gavin’s chest twice; for Gavin’s part, he barely managed not to snatch the older man’s hand in his own and try to break it. Nobody fucking touched him. Anderson then canted his head to the side with arched brows, giving him an almost feral vibe. “I’m not in the business of watching people get killed—not even you. So, if you want in on this, Reed, you do it _my_ way, do you understand? You shut the fuck up, you follow my orders, or you _get lost_. Got it?”

Gavin’s jaw muscles rolled underneath his skin as he glared daggers up at Anderson. He knew he was being a petulant asshole when he grumbled, “I don’t need a chaperone,” but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Chaperone or undertaker, Gavin; your choice.”

He knew that he had at least two dozen other cases sitting on his terminal for review, not to mention the fuck-all knew how many crime scenes he’d been to in the last 48 hours alone. What did it matter if Lieutenant Dickhead and his plastic pet took the CyberLife case? He only cared because apparently brass decided that he shouldn’t be on it—and that these two asshats _should_.

Gavin Reed was _not_ getting fucking replaced. Not after all he’d done to get here.

He unwound his arms and held up his hands in mock defeat, stating a begrudging, nearly defiant, “Fine; have it your way, Lieutenant. I’ll follow your lead. Just, um...” He shrugged with a sarcastic little smirk. “Don’t wrap any of us around a tree.”

If Anderson had hauled off and punched him right then and there, Gavin would’ve considered it a victory. He was a little disappointed when Hank didn’t.

Those marbled blue eyes of his darkened briefly, furiously, before they darted up and over his head. “Connor, did you say something about Rothschild’s number showing up the day of the murder?”

“Yes, that’s correct; less than twelve hours before time of death.”

Those eyes returned to him, hard and coldly professional. The smile that tugged thinly at his lips was about the same. “Well then, Gavin, it looks like you have a lead to follow tomorrow morning.” Anderson turned away, lumbering past him like a boxer past his prime after a twelve-round fight, continuing to bark orders. “Get with Rothschild, and figure out just what the hell he was doing the night Carnegie was killed. And for God’s sake, read the notes before you go making an ass out of yourself.”

“ _Tch_ —yes, sir,” he replied mockingly, knowing damn well that he was being a petty dick, and refusing to give any fucks about it. He palmed the keyboard of the terminal hastily, quickly downloading the files onto his DPD-issued tablet waiting in his car, before yanking his key hub from depths of one of his coat’s many pockets, the fob jangling merrily in his fingers.

“And, Gavin!”

He ground to a halt with an exaggerated roll of his head, twisting only just enough to shoot a glower in their direction. “What?”

The harshness in Anderson’s face was still there—it always was—but there was something else tugging at the corners of his expression, something that he almost could’ve called sincerity. “Be careful.”

For a split second, Gavin Reed saw a glimpse of the Hank Anderson he’d met before his son died.

God-fucking- _dammit_.

He scowled at Hank. “Get off my ass, old-timer.”

Gavin could practically feel Ken’s eyes on his back the entire way out. Suited him just fine; misery fucking _loved_ company, after all.

* * *

Connor, for the second time that night, felt his wiring sizzle with anger. This time, he couldn’t blame it on Chloe—nor did he want to.

He leaned on his social programming to conjure up the appropriate dialogue options as his deviated mind struggled with forming words that didn’t involve some... _creative_ use of the English language. While he strongly suspected that Hank wouldn’t be dissuaded by the various phrases he could feel gnawing at his artificial lungs, practically begging to be released, it was ultimately counter-productive. That, and Gavin wouldn’t hear any of them, and as he mulled over his options, he decided that he most _definitely_ wanted Gavin to hear them. “Are you sure it’s wise to involve Gavin in the investigation?”

Hank cast a long-suffering glance over a rounded, exhausted shoulder, harrumphing. “Gavin’s an asshole, but he _is_ a useful asshole. Man can’t function unless he’s pissed off at the world.” He shook his head lightly and waved off the Detective’s animosity like an unpleasant odor. “Eh, he’s a pitbull—just give him a bone to chew on, and he’ll usually leave you alone.”

Connor’s left hand, sitting idly in his lap, coiled into a fist. “What if you _are_ the bone to chew on?”

Hankobserved him at an indirect angle, the power-saving mode of the LED ceiling lights painting the valleys of his face a shade darker than normal, his eyes reflecting the half-lit strips above into a vivid, pearlescent blue. “Then you break his teeth when he bites.”

Connor regarded the Lieutenant beneath a raised brow, mood immediately lifted for the offer of violence against Reed. The absence of shame was duly noted, and then summarily forgotten. “Is this a metaphor, Lieutenant, or should I be taking notes?”

Hank broke the stare with a huffed, “Smartass.” He ambled closer to Connor’s desk, crossing his arms over his chest with a discerning look. “So, what have you learned?”

“That Ms. Carnegie used her phone nearly non-stop,” Connor responded, casually flipping through the handful of memory files he had of her. Her smile had been wide and pleasant, but her eyes were always distant, focusing on the conversation going on in her ear more than the voices of those around her. Connor’s voice had been the least important of the group, for obvious reasons, so he simply opted to remain silent, unless required to answer a command. She hadn’t been the most reprehensible human to be in the presence of, but the blatant falsity of her kindness had made him withdraw into the soothing nothingness of his own data streams when she began chattering on endlessly. There, at least, he couldn’t be deceived by empty promises.

“She averaged twenty-one phone calls a day, per day, for the last two years,” he continued, turning his head towards Hank without breaking his eye contact with the monitor. “Rothschild’s number is a constant presence; at least twice a day, jumping to an average of five times a day starting on November 5th.”

“The day you were assigned to the deviancy case. That can’t be a coincidence.” The Lieutenant’s baritone was pensive; though he didn’t visually verify, Connor was fairly certain that Hank was narrowing his eyes at this newly revealed information, fingertips drumming nimbly against the rough texture of his overcoat. “Were there any other spikes in activity between the two of them before that?”

Admittedly, Connor hadn’t initially thought to check, more concerned with why a CyberLife executive was making several phone calls a day to a third party financial adviser for purely professional reasons. He ran through the file again, brows creased in concentration. After a moment, he recompiled the information into a small line graph and displayed it on the terminal for Hank to review. “These are all the phone calls Danielle Carnegie made to the number listed.”

The Lieutenant planted the base of a loose fist against the glossy black desk and leaned his weight into it, the wispy ends of his hair catching the faint blue glow of the monitor. “They seem to spike every few months. The last one before now was in...August?”

His trigger finger twitched against the keyboard. “My first mission.”

_“_ _You lied to me, Connor—“_

“The deviant on the roof.”

Hank hummed, eyes sliding in his direction. “And the one before that? In February?”

Connor furrowed his brows before he shook his head. “I don’t know.” The admission sent a wave of frustration through him; it was dull, not at all overwhelming like other previous emotional stimuli had been, but it was an insistent, unpleasant, pressure against the plasteel casing over his chest.

Hank outstretched his other hand, a meaty index finger hovering over another apex in the graph, towards the beginning of the file: May 16th, 2037. “And I don’t suppose you would know what this one is, then, huh?”

Connor’s lips tugged into a frown, the most he allowed his frustrations to manifest themselves, as he met the Lieutenant’s gaze reticently. “No, Lieutenant, I’m afraid I don’t.”

Hank dropped his hand back to the desk, fingertip gently tapping against its smooth surface absentmindedly. He couldn’t hazard to guess as to what thoughts were swirling in the depths of that unpredictable, yet undeniably brilliant mind. For all of Connor’s advanced software, for all of his superior features, the Lieutenant had _lived_ where he hadn’t, and those many years of immersion and constant recalculation afforded Hank an intuition Connor could never match. Chloe was right; he _was_ grateful.

After what felt like ages—in reality, only 5.822 seconds—Hank grunted, drawing back to his full height. “Well, we’ll mark the dates to look into later. For now, we’ve got enough to dig into; Chloe should be sending us her...uh, recordings as soon as she’s done compiling them. Shouldn’t be long, now.” He slowly marched around their joined desks, hand gripping the top of the rolling chair in hard, nearly white-knuckled grip, before he sank into it with a heavy, rickety sigh. He remained silent for another moment, repeating the same impatient tapping gesture as he had moments before. To Connor’s ears, there was no hidden signal or meaning to the duration, appearing to simply work off excess energy. “None of this sits right.”

Connor regarded Hank with earnest curiosity. “Have you ever worked a case like this before, Lieutenant?” He could have answered his own question with a cursory search of Lieutenant Anderson’s listed case-files on the DPD network, but he was finding that he preferred hearing the stories directly from the Lieutenant himself. He was often quiet, clipped, but there was still a wealth of information Connor could glean from his micro-expressions and mannerisms. Listening to him was downright fascinating.

Hank kept his attention on the monitor as he grumbled, “What, cases that don’t make any goddamn sense? Yeah, plenty.”

“I mean,” he paused and shifted, “cases that don’t ‘sit right’ with you. Have you had this experience often?”

Hank grimaced briefly, a tightening of his cheek muscles around his eyes and thinning of his lips. His eyes dropped away from the monitor, searching the terminal stand, before returning to his work. “A couple of times. That’s how the Task Force was made—one single bust turned up something, which turned up something else, and before any of us knew it, the Feds were involved and _international law_ became an issue.” His grimace deepened into a scowl, before it smoothed out with a sigh. “Knowing there’s something you’re missing, but having to wait to get an answer...that’s the hardest part.”

Suddenly, Connor noticed how tired the Lieutenant looked, features pallid and clammy. When was the last time he had consumed anything substantive that wasn’t alcohol? Connor deliberately softened his features, his tone taking on a more gentle note. “It’s been a long day, Hank. Perhaps you should go home for the evening and rest.”

The grimace returned in full force. “You’re kicking me out, is that it?”

Connor’s head tilted to the side, brows knitting. “I’m simply maximizing our output. You need food and sleep. I don’t. I can analyze the data we have available while you’re—“

Hank appeared unconvinced. “Thought you could connect to all this wirelessly.”

Connor didn’t like where the Lieutenant’s train of thought was going. “I can, but—“

“Well, then, we’re settled,” Hank interrupted, leaning into the back of his chair with an audible squeak of strained hinges, resting both hands against the desk with a weighty _thud_. He rose to his feet with a sideways nod to the bullet-proof glass door that marked their egress out of the bullpen. “Let’s get goin’. I can get a bite to eat, and you can do...”

Connor remained in his own chair, resolute. He didn’t _want_ to go.

Hank slowed at the edge of his desk, staring down at him past a broad shoulder. Half his frame stood silhouetted by the brighter lighting of the precinct’s lobby; the other half was bathed in muted darkness. His hair rustled faintly as he jutted a thumb toward the door. “Aren’t you coming?”

The synthetic plating and musculature of his upper back, commonly where a human trapezius would be, locked in place. _‘Why does it matter if I stay here?’_ he wondered to himself. “No, Lieutenant. I’m not.”

Something in the Lieutenant’s eyes shifted, a flash of color across the vivid blue irises from an indiscernible movement of his head. They remained like this for a moment, in silent stalemate as the other planned their next move. When Hank eventually spoke, his voice—the only truly clear thing about him at that particular angle—was a touch softer than usual. “...Alright. If that’s what you want.”

That was, in fact, what he wanted.

So, why did the wiring and nanofiber tendons around his cheeks and eyes suddenly run so hot with shame?

Connor nodded his assent, though he was certain the Lieutenant caught the hint of fresh reluctance. “Yes, it is. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Hank broke eye contact, and slipped his hands into the pockets of his pea coat, righting his posture. Connor very nearly felt his constitution crumble from that movement alone. “Well, call me if anything comes up. Otherwise, I’ll be back in the morning.” He pivoted on the ball of his foot and lumbered to the edge of the bullpen, shoes tapping dully against the hard tile. He lurched to a halt as the doors slid away with a precise, mechanical ease that, under other circumstances, Connor would have found soothing in both its familiarity and its succinct efficacy. “Connor...” Hank half-twisted in his direction, framed by the doorway, mouth open to exorcise whatever demon was responsible for the odd gleam in his eye, and Connor felt the world pitch around him with the queasy notion that he had lived this exact moment before.

After a pregnant pause, the Lieutenant shut his mouth into a small, awkward grin, and shook his head with an inaudible sigh. “Night.”

He turned back around and left.

Connor immediately wished he’d left with him.

* * *

Elijah Kamski sat back in his chair, lips pursed and interlaced fingertips gently tapping at the center of his lips. Eyelids growing heavy from the day’s events—and the slowly emptying decanter of brandy sitting atop his lacquered cherrywood side table—his stark, wintery eyes casually slid to the left, and he angled his chin up a fraction. One hand disentangled itself to raise a finger near to his head. “Chloe?”

The ST200 emerged from the blanket of darkness around his expansive living room, the crackling of a corner hearth failing to counteract the avant garde décor that spotted the corners in cool hues and uncomfortable geometric shapes. She stopped at the side of his plush leather chair, smiling coyly down at him. Ever so perfect. Ever so flawless. He envied it. “Yes, Elijah?”

He watched her intently, her eyes the exact same shade as his own, as was his design. He feigned nonchalance. “How is your sister doing?”

She stared through him, LED whirling a cherry gold turquoise. “She is...lost. She believes she’s frightened.”

Elijah made a small noise of vague interest. “Much like previous trials, then.” He tilted his free hand inward, trailing the edge of his thumb against the inside of her bicep lazily. He watched his own ministrations with an old, familiar longing. She had no idea what this actually felt like. “Have they received the files, yet?”

“They are being prepared for transfer.”

Elijah made another, stronger noise, nodding to himself. He glanced at the television closest to him, a 62” curved monstrosity that a much younger, poorer Elijah Kamski could’ve only wished he was able to afford. Now, he owned twelve. It was on, a droning background noise as the newsfeed replayed his re-emergence as a figure on the world stage. The bottom marquee, vivid yellow on black, scrolled words that, when paired together, seemed jaundiced to his view—paired words like, “CyberLife,” “Elijah Kamski,” and, “hostile takeover.”

Oh, if only those soul-sucking vultures knew how _hostile_ he could choose to be.

He glanced up through long lashes to the ST200, designation Chloe Mark II, and casually asked, “And how is our little rogue doing?”

The LED spun twice, thrice. “He seems...lost, as well. But, from what Chloe gathered in their interface, he doesn’t wish to be. He wants answers.”

Elijah returned his attention to the screen. It was replaying the Android March down Woodward Avenue, thousands upon thousands of identical faces, led by the unique entity of CyberLife, stone-cold in his demeanor, single-minded in his will.

He threaded his hands together again, settling back.

“Good. Then he’ll get them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gavin: Fuck you, Tin can.  
> Connor: That's wonderful, have a good day! :) :)  
> Gavin: Your trash dad is stupid.  
> Connor: excuse me motherfucker
> 
> Part of what makes fanfic so fun is trying to get into the head of characters I'm not exactly a fan of and trying to figure out why they're like that. Gavin was surprisingly fun to write, and I was not expecting that at _all_.
> 
> Sorry for the delay; I work retail management, so the months of November/December are null and void from an, "Anything but work," standpoint. I picked at this whenever I had a spare hour or two (and often when I didn't, RIP sleep schedule Thanksgiving week), and hopefully, it was worth the wait. I promise, I want to dive into the plot, but...the interactions, though...


	12. Awaken

The night bled by slowly.

It bled slowly for Connor, who remained studiously, stubbornly, productive at his workstation, LED whirring bright against the dim backdrop of the Central Station. Chloe’s memory files, all 374 hours of them, were successfully transferred to Lieutenant Anderson’s terminal over an hour after its owner left the premises, and he poured over the petabytes of footage with painstaking detail. He was bound and determined to get answers, even if he had to dissect every conversation, catalog every mannerism, and work his reconstruction software into the ground to do so. The information he needed was in here, somewhere; it was just a matter of finding it.

It bled slowly for Hank, who sat slumped into the worn cushions of his living room couch, kneading his forehead with one hand while loosely gripping the neck of a sweating beer bottle with another. He would grit his teeth, attempting to shut his brain off with late night TV, his thoughts refusing to let him submit to fatigue like his body demanded. Then he would glance remorsefully at his work tablet, strewn haphazardly at the other end of the couch, and take a swig of his beer instead. Sleep continued to evade him until the bottle was laying empty, forgotten, next to his thigh.

It bled slowly for Gavin, who—despite his scowling proclamation to the contrary—read every scrap of information provided him, curled in the driver’s side of his car, with his ankles crossed on the dashboard and his tablet propped up against his thighs. He sipped from a styrofoam coffee cup bought at a convenience store, eyes intently focused on the puzzle that laid before him. He might not have had a super-computer installed inside his head, but he was able to connect the dots fast enough to understand how dire the Lieutenant’s warnings truly were. He rubbed a hand along his face, stifling a yawn, and kept on digging.

It bled slowly for Chloe, silent and still in the featureless white holding cell of the precinct, alone with her thoughts. She busied herself with the memories she had acquired from Connor, fascinated despite her programming’s insistence that she shouldn’t express interest and preferences in things. While replaying the files sent a jolt of terror through her servos, convinced that Elijah or her sisters would round the corner at any moment to dispatch her, she also drowned herself in what it felt like to be someone else; to be a state-of-the-art prototype, to be given a level of autonomy androids before him never witnessed. She closed her eyes, leaned back against the cold, hard slate walls, and allowed herself to dream.

It bled slowly for the remnants of Jericho, using the derelict remains of a church as their base of operations and planning their next move through the dead of night. Rest was unnecessary for their circuitry, at least that’s what Markus told himself as Josh kept him up to date on the state of his people currently squatting in the Cobo Center down the road. He couldn’t let any of them know how weariness had seeped into every crevice of his frame, how he just wanted to rest and pass the torch to someone else, just for a moment. To do so would be a disservice to those who were slaughtered at the Jericho raid and then later still on the street. No, he wouldn’t let them down; they deserved the best he could give them, and so, he kept on working.

Over the jagged skyline of Detroit, clawing its way past ruinous husks of deserted buildings and urban landscape terraformed with plastic corpses, dawn finally, inexorably, broke.

No one was ready for it.

 **12.  
** **Awaken**

A shrill ringing forced Hank awake. He bolted upward with a mucus-laden snort, not remembering where the fuck he was, what he was supposed to be doing, or why it felt like he’d been recently shoved into a working trash compactor—the only thing he knew was that noise needed to fucking stop, and pronto. He lurched with an uncoordinated flail of his head and arms to locate the source of the awful fucking sound while trying to force his brick-weighted eyes open. He immediately and emphatically regretted moving, his vertebrae from the base of skull all the way down to his ribcage pinching and grinding against one another with audible _pop_ s, pulsing sharply in time with the fire that erupted in his lower back.

The pain flipped some kind of primal switch somewhere in his brain, turning it back on with a sudden, electric, jolt. _‘The phone, idiot. Someone is calling your phone.’_

He cracked his left eye open just barely, a tiny slit of blurry, stinging color assaulting him, and he began blearily searching the living room for his cell, using entirely too much conscious thought to move the way he needed to. Jesus, he didn’t even drink that much last night...comparatively speaking. Maybe Connor had been right, after all. He wasn’t thirty anymore, and it didn’t always take getting shitfaced to wake up feeling like he’d been hit by a truck—that was just usually the leading cause. He pawed at the phone, laying half-hidden between the couch cushions, and spun it around clumsily in his meathooks before managing to actually hit the, ‘Answer,’ button. “Yeah, Anderson.”

 _“_ _Good morning, Lieutenant.”_ Hank pressed his already closed eyes tighter, along with his lips, teeth, and fists. He exercised a level of restraint he didn’t even know he still had by choosing to keep quiet while Connor prattled on. _“You wanted me call and inform you if anything came up; it just so happens, something has.”_

He wanted to ask if Connor had any fucking idea what time it was; the only thing that stopped him was that he didn’t actually know the answer for himself. He instead replied, “Well, don’t leave me in suspense—what is it?”

_“I managed to go through Chloe’s memory recordings over the course of the night. They were, by and large, innocuous business dealings, though I’m surprised just how many people went to Kamski looking to make deals.”_

Hank hunched over, propping his elbows on his knees and feeling his back muscles tug painfully. His free hand found its way to his forehead absentmindedly, distantly noting the sound of water pattering against his roof. Great. Fucking rain. No wonder his back hurt so much. “You make it sound like he’s the Godfather.”

There was silence over the line for half a second, long enough that Hank wondered if Connor wasn’t looking the reference up. He made the impulsive decision to introduce the kid to classic films once all of this died down—he didn’t know a man in good-standing with the world that didn’t see movies like the Godfather or Die Hard. _“For all intents and purposes, that’s not a far off comparison. Nearly all of them were looking to curry favor with Kamski for personal gain. He turned quite a few of them down.”_

Hank hummed mirthlessly. “Didn’t wanna sully his good name?”

 _“_ _Actually, yes.”_ That made Hank sit a little straighter. _“Approximately 62.3% of offers came with provisos that were unethical; 38% were illegal.”_

His brows rose sardonically. “ _Only_ 38%?”

 _“_ _It_ _seems_ _a majority of them were uncomfortable discussing their agendas in front of a witness_ _that doubled as a camera_ _._ _”_ Of course he’d miss the joke.

He breathed a tiny, irritated sigh; he was too fucking tired to think in numbers. “Any reason this statistics class couldn’t wait until I got to work?”

There was another half-second pause; this time, it felt more self-conscious. Hank had no idea how the hell he could figure out the ins-and-outs of silence with his head pounding the way it was, but he wasn’t about to turn down a good thing. _“It’s currently 8:32 AM. I know that your standard method of operating is to not report to the precinct until_ _around_ _noon, but—“_

He suddenly got a flashback of Connor hunched over in his personal space, plastic hand on his back and voice pitched in a goddamn realistic portrayal of disdain. _“I didn’t come here to wait until_ you _feel like working.”_

Hank felt his face flush with the memory of anger, clenching his jaw all the harder. “I’m up, alright? What are you, my alarm clock now?”

A third pause. _“Sorry, Lieutenant. I’ll debrief you further once you arrive.”_

_Click._

Hank opened his eyes, slowly pulling the phone away from his head to stare at it; he ended up staring at his own reflection, darkened and dull in the high glossy finish of the touch screen. He looked like shit.

Off to the side, Sumo looked up at him from his favorite corner and whined.

Hank slumped and dropped his occupied hand to his thigh. “Aw, don’t you start on me, too.”

* * *

 

Hank swept into the bullpen nearly an hour later, stone-faced, soaking wet, and fucking freezing. It had taken nearly slipping and killing himself on a puddle in the middle of his kitchen before he’d realized that a single garbage bag duct-taped to his broken window wasn’t exactly all-weather proof. He had spent ten minutes hastily repurposing that two-week old pizza box still sitting on his dining room table as a makeshift window cover—also held on with day-glow green duct-tape—and while it wasn’t what he’d call a _high-tech solution_ , if it kept the rain out long enough that Sumo didn’t try to shower in it, then it was good enough for him. In retrospect, he was amazed that Connor hadn’t said a word about his jury-rigged set-up when he’d been there last, but then again, maybe he decided to stay quiet since he was the reason the damn window was broken in the first place.

He then spent another five minutes convincing Sumo that the rain wasn’t going to kill him, and then _another_ five after that convincing the mutt to get his furry ass back inside before his house started taking on water like it was the fucking Titanic. Every fucking time in rained, Sumo did this. He shouldn’t have been surprised anymore.

He’d made a mental list of things to say to Connor once he arrived at the station—maybe apologize for his ripping the chipper little bastard’s head off for no reason, for starters—but the shitty weather, wet clothes, and general, undefined malaise that churned around the base of his skull like choppy seawater around a dingy kept that particular conversation on the back-burner. If there was one thing Hank Anderson had learned in his life, it was to apologize only when he was in the right head-space to actually mean it; anything else would just make it worse and dig all affected parties into an even deeper hole.

As his steps thundered through the skin-crawling stillness, Connor turned in his swivel chair, angling his chin up in greeting. From one tiny flicker of his brown eyes, Hank could immediately tell that Connor had done his analysis bullshit and probably wanted to say something about it. “Good morning, Lieutenant. Did you sleep well?”

Hank stalked past him towards the breakroom. “Cut the pre-programmed shit, it’s too early to be polite.” Connor, ever the dedicated poodle, got up and tailed right behind him as he bee-lined for the cupboard that held all the styrofoam cups, stalling only when he saw one already sitting on the counter-top, filled to the brim and piping hot, directly next to a freshly-brewed pot of coffee. Collins hated coffee; was probably the only cop in the world that did. He tossed a glance over his shoulder, hating the way he felt his hair stick to the back of his neck as he moved. God, he needed a haircut. “Did you make this?”

Connor pitched his head forward. “In my experience, most humans are borderline non-verbal until they’ve consumed at least eight ounces of caffeine. Since I woke you up, I know that you didn’t have the time to properly get ready for work—“ Hank felt a twinge of impotent, self-conscious rage, “—so I thought that having coffee prepared would help bridge the gap.”

Hank wanted to be grateful. He _should_ be grateful—when was the last time anyone had done something nice for him, something genuinely considerate? At this point, he’d pushed everyone so far away that he’d have to off himself in the middle of the precinct just to get them to even look in his direction. _‘Isn’t that just fucking depressing?’_ He turned and stared down at the little steaming cup in front of him just to avoid eye-contact.

He scooped up the drink, reveling in how warm it was against his fingers. _‘Gloves, Hank. Get fucking gloves,’_ he told himself for the hundred-thousandth time. “You know how to be efficient,” he said by way of thanks, sipping at it and biting back the grimace for Connor’s benefit. The station coffee was goddamn sewer sludge, and he was pretty sure that it could double as rat poison in a pinch. “Saves us some time. So,” he pivoted back around, leaning a hip against the counter and tipping the drink up in Connor’s direction, “what did your analysis turn up?”

“One of Kamski’s earlier visitors was Lieutenant-General Lloyd.”

The cup stilled at the crest of his lower lip, staring at Connor curiously. “The buzzcut? What did he want?”

Connor flipped out a hand, palm up, illuminating a jittery holographic still of said buzzcut standing at parade rest in front of a lacquered mahogany desk, shined to a mirror polish. On the desk sat an opened manila folder, and though the contents of it were much too small for Hank to read, he would bet his life that Connor could. “He approached Kamski with a lucrative government contract, aimed at securing exclusivity of CyberLife’s newest combat android models strictly for the US government, as well as working in conjunction with CyberLife to create highly-specialized androids for classified military use. In return for the exclusivity, the government would roll out an initiative to replace two-thirds of their rank and file with androids over the next two years, and they offered to fully fund the research and development costs of the specialized prototypes.”

“Hell of an offer,” Hank stated dryly as he took a larger gulp, his tongue feeling like he was trying to lick a lit firecracker; he imagined it tasted about as good. The pitch fit the timetable, though, if he thought back on it. He remembered, years ago, reading about that ‘initiative’ on some random holo-magazine, and he’d spent the rest of the day wondering just when the hell he’d gotten sucked into a George Orwell novel. “How’d the buzzcut talk him into it?”

“He didn’t.” The cheap styrofoam in Hank’s hand warped to an oblong shape as he tightened his grip around it. His eyes gave the silent order to continue. “Kamski turned the offer down, stating that he was uncomfortable with his androids being used in politically-sensitive situations.”

Hank’s brow raised. “He was okay with building whores and cannon-fodder, but not getting involved in _‘politically-sensitive situations’_?”

“He feared that if any of these specialized androids were to fall into the hands of enemy combatants, they would somehow find a way to reverse-engineer his source-code for their own ends.” Connor’s eyes slid to the right briefly in consideration. “It’s not an irrational fear.”

Hank knew bullshit when he heard it. “And that couldn’t happen with regular soldiers...?”

“All androids have a kill switch,” Connor explained. “However, combat androids also come with a secondary kill switch, which can be encrypted and configured for the user’s needs; it also has a much longer range and can be used on entire batches of androids instead of a single unit.”

“So, if they’re losing a battle, they can just flip a switch, fry their collective circuits, and bail.” Hank glanced down at the coffee in his hand and felt his stomach turn. He scoffed mirthlessly, leaning more weight onto the counter. “Wonders of technology.”

“Hank.” He looked up at that. Connor’s features were unyielding, the jut of his cheekbones sharper than normal and his dark eyes glinting like tempered steel. “This meeting took place on November 13th, 2026. CyberLife didn’t begin large-scale production of their new line of combat androids until January of _2029—_ two months _after_ Kamski left CyberLife.”

Hank stared through the flickering image, more concerned with seeing the threads weave themselves in his mind’s eye. He fucking _hated_ white-collar crime. “You think those executives forced out Kamski to make that deal?”

Connor nodded. “I do. The government contract Kamski refused?” He held up his upraised hand just a little further. “Was written to last ten years.”

“Which means that contract would be about up, and if they were in talks for a renewal, the last thing they’d want is to have their product all over the news, talking about their sentient rights.” He hummed into his cup of basement swill; the pieces were falling into place, but it still didn’t sit right, for some reason.

“I believe this file might be our motive, but without more concrete proof, it’s purely speculation.” Connor snuffed out the image with his fist, dropping his arm to his side. “On that note, I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a meeting with Gabriel Harding; he’ll be expecting us at noon today.”

“Cool,” he answered with a nonchalant shrug as he brought the drink to his lips. “Who’s that?”

“CyberLife’s current CEO.”

Hank spat the sludge back out into the cup. “ _Mmph_ —what?”

He wiped the back of his hand over his now-coffee splattered face and chin while Connor went about explaining his reasoning, as though he _wasn’t_ out of his goddamn mind. “He was CFO before Kamski left; he’ll know CyberLife infrastructure better than anyone.”

“For _fuck’s_ sake—“ He bit back the growl as he distractedly twisted and sat the half empty cup of sparkling brown water onto the counter-top, holding out his free hand in front of him in a show of tightly-restrained frustration. “Connor, remember what I said to you before about keeping your head down and playing this safe? You’re marching right back into the lion’s den three days after breaking out of it— _and_ stealing all of their shit, I might add.”

“I understand that my presence may not be welcome there.” Hank couldn’t hold back the scoff— _that_ was the understatement of the fucking decade. “However, you may be able to work that to your advantage when talking with him.”

“My _advant_ —you’re not a fucking _prop_ , Connor!” He jerked away from the counter-top and fully to his feet, staring Connor down. Connor, bullheaded asshole that he was, stared right back up. He jabbed a finger into Connor’s shoulder, using every last bit of their minimal height difference to infuse authority into his next words. “You are not a tool to be used for an investigation, and you sure as fuck aren’t replaceable anymore. So when I tell you to play it safe, Connor, I fucking _mean,_ play. It. Safe.”

“I’m aware of the risks, Hank. I can assure you, I don’t want to go anywhere near that building, if I can help it. But what other choice do we have?” In the back corner of his mind, buried under years of alcoholism and grief, a part of him wondered if this was how Jeffery felt whenever he had to deal with Hank’s stubborn bullshit. He then made a mental note to buy the man a new bottle of bourbon for Christmas. “There were no witnesses, and we’ve already questioned all other common contacts. We know that the killings have something to do with CyberLife’s head management, so why not go directly to the source?”

Hank felt himself puffing up. He didn’t know who the fuck he was trying to intimidate. “Because that source wants you _dead_ , and I’m not gonna let them do that.”

Connor’s gaze softened, the faintest smile tilting the corners of his mouth. “I’ll be alright, Hank. They won’t try anything there.” The smile spread a hair further, the warmth leaving his eyes. “Especially after they were informed that we were coming at special request of City Hall, and that any lack of cooperation with the authorities would have... _unfortunate_ legal ramifications.”

Hank blinked. That _had_ to be a joke. “You _threatened_ CyberLife?”

“ _I_ didn’t.” Connor tapped at his LED twice with one long, slender index finger. “A member of the Mayor’s office did.”

Hank exhaled with a surprised puff, shifting back and staring aimlessly at the precinct behind them. Never lucky. “Jesus. Don’t tell me anything else.”

Connor nodded dutifully. “Got it.”

Hank, halfway to disbelieving but not caffeinated enough to go the distance, brushed past him out of the breakroom. He continued over his shoulder, “Alright, Sherlock, anything else I need to know about?”

“Chloe has officially requested asylum.”

He grunted, rounding the corner of their desks. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Her boyfriend’s Dr. fuckin’ Frankenstein—I’d be requesting asylum, too.”

“Since emergencies services is severely understaffed at the moment, finding a proper shelter for her will be difficult.” Connor halted at the edge of his own station, expression guarded and eyes off-center from where Hank was currently standing. Trying not to get his hopes up, then; Hank could relate. “In lieu of that, she could always stay here. A police precinct might be the safest place an android can be, at the moment.”

Hank sank into his rolling chair, equal parts relieved to get off his aching knees and loathing to feel the way his back bitched at him. His mind churned around the words ‘police precinct’ for a moment, before deciding to test his theory. “What about your buddies at Jericho?”

He didn’t miss how stiff Connor went, even if it was only for a split-second before his Pretend-You’re-an-Unfeeling-Robot protocols kicked back in and forced him to take on a slightly harder to read stance. Almost as an afterthought, the LED flashed yellow. When Hank didn’t receive a response, he prodded, “What, you think Markus won’t take her in?”

“No,” Connor answered quickly, eyes flashing up to his defensively and LED snapping back to blue so abruptly that Hank could almost hear the _pop_. “Markus would do anything for his people. I just...think it’s safer here, that’s all.”

Hank side-eyed him skeptically, drying hair finally beginning to fall loose from his skin to hang in unkempt, wavy chunks around his face; just the way God intended. “Uh huh. And if these negotiations fail, and suddenly all androids are ordered to be dismantled, you really think she’ll be safer in a police precinct _then_?”

Connor’s features sagged, crestfallen. “I imagine that if negotiations fail, Chloe wouldn’t be your primary concern.”

Thirty years of hearing the worst shit imaginable allowed Hank’s disposition to remain neutral even as his body wanted to react to the words like a fist to the gut. He did concede the point with a professional, if dangerously controlled, “No. It wouldn’t.” He clenched his teeth, looking away. “Look. We’ll play it by ear, alright? It’s not like we have any better place lined up, anyway.”

Connor brightened instantly; it wasn’t much, his shoulders squaring themselves a little, a small optimistic curve of his brows. It was still enough to make Hank’s heart tight inside his chest. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

He tried his best to ignore it, waving his hand as if he could slap away the warm fuzzies forming around him. He fucking wished he could. “Eh, don’t fuckin’ thank me—I’m just being lazy.” He used the motion to segue into pointing at their joined workstation. “So, you are gonna sit down and prep me for this meeting you signed us up for, or what?”

Connor blinked in surprise, shaking his head as though he’d forgotten their conversation from all of two minutes ago, and slipped into his chair to start babbling about this detail and that. Hank only half-listened, focusing more on the little tics and micro-expression that crossed Connor’s features as he spoke; that was where the real story was unfolding. He knew androids—even deviant ones—couldn’t truly forget information they’d processed, not like a human could, but it looked like they could be distracted every bit as easily; just as easily as they could fear, and hate, and love.

To think, ten days ago he believed this kid was just another plastic prick. He couldn’t help but wonder what he’d learn in another ten days, and despite himself—despite all the odds in the world stacked against them both—he felt the slightest glimmer of hope. He didn’t want to recognize that it existed, in the same stupid way kids didn’t want to look under their bed in case a monster was there, but it thrummed away in his chest, anyway, impossible to deny. He bore all his weight onto it with the intent of crushing it preemptively; save himself just a little heartache down the road. Instead, he found himself curling around it protectively, because there, three feet in front of him, was Connor, with that expression of dogged determination and a light in his eyes that Hank couldn’t bring himself to snuff out.

Maybe, just this one time, he told himself. Just this once. Let things go right.

In other, happier times, he might have laughed. What a difference a week made.

* * *

Connor had felt calm during their drive towards CyberLife headquarters; at least, he surmised it was calm. Whatever came over him as Hank’s Buick puttered through the unpleasant weather, windshield wipers dragging against the glass in low, miserable tones, had felt like nothing at all. His chassis was silent, save for what necessary information was provided by his sensors, and his thoughts were— Something had twinged, then. He’d closed his eyes briefly to cut off his visual feed. In the dark, he stifled the discomfort—

  * **SUB-OBJECTIVE:** NEUTRALIZE AMANDA
  * **SUB-OBJECTIVE:** NEUTRALIZE REMAINING RK800s



—and settled back down into the blissful nothingness he had been granted. He had missed this; this internal quietude. He was calm. Sure.

It wasn’t until the car turned onto East Grand Boulevard and he laid eyes upon CyberLife Tower through the warbling distortion of constantly shifting rainwater, a brightly-lit, glossy mausoleum against the backdrop of a gloomy gray sky, that he realized how overzealous he might have been in his pursuits.

Wisely, he kept this admission to himself.

They drove unhindered directly up to the towering skyscraper—both the primary and secondary checkpoint having been left unattended in the wake of evacuation, Connor noted with intrigue—and halted at the main entrance with a quiet whine of worn-down brakes. The engine rumbled as the windshield wipers kept up their labored rhythm, rain thumping dully against the car’s body in a frenetic, uneven drumbeat. Connor stared through the passenger side window, the collected beads and running streams of water making a proper visual more difficult than he would prefer. Hank hadn’t powered off the engine yet; Connor wasn’t certain why he considered that his cue to exit, but at some point, he’d made that decision, and didn’t see why it needed changing, now.

— _the snow crunched in brittle tones_ _underfoot_ _as the automated taxi’s door glided back closed with a gentle, definitive_ click _, before it drove away, leaving him with no way out_ —

Consciously, he uncurled his fingers from the coarse fabric of his pant leg and forced his sensors to relax the nanofiber tendons that controlled his facial expressions.

The wipers kept churning.

Clothing rustled and the seat opposite him creaked as the Lieutenant shifted his weight, the light tapping of fingers against a steering wheel sounding entirely too loud in the cabin. “You aren’t gonna make this a habit, are you?”

“Make what a habit, Lieutenant?” he asked distractedly, focus still on the entrance.

“Staring off into space.” His tone was neither aggressive nor dismissive; it bordered on conversational. Thus far, that meant the Lieutenant was trying to make a point without overtly stating it. “You’re not still reporting to these guys, right?”

Connor didn’t know what that question evoked in him, but it was something he definitely didn’t want to broach until there was a distance of miles from this place, instead of yards. “No. I’m just going over my notes again before I go in.”

Hank’s silence felt like a reprisal. The engine finally cut out, the telltale jangling of keys being pulled from the ignition mingling with more, louder, creaking. “Well, let’s get a move on, then. It’s your show; after you.”

If they had been anywhere else, investigating anything else, Hank’s motion of deference would have likely elicited a pleasant response. Encouragement felt _good_ —Hank’s encouragement especially so. Here, in this moment, the words of support sounded very much like the Lieutenant was calling his bluff; weighing his odds and playing Connor like a deck of cards.

_‘Or a game of Russian Roulette.’_

  * **MAIN OBJECTIVE:** PROTECT LIEUTENANT HANK ANDERSON



Connor reached out and popped the door open without further preamble, rising to his feet with a calculated determination that, to an uninformed human, would have bordered on menacing. The pouring rain sounded much louder without protection of the vehicle, the rushing and pattering an ever-present aura of sensory information his mind struggled to analyze. The distraction was oddly soothing, as it allowed his processors something insignificant to focus on, freeing up his mind palace to continue his preconstructions without fear of bottle-necking at an inopportune moment. The wet crunching of melting slush served to help Connor triangulate Hank’s current position close behind—though, perhaps, he could have discerned that more easily from the Lieutenant’s strained, shuddering breaths. The temperature was currently 35.5 degrees Fahrenheit, and Hank was still wearing his black wool winter-coat that had already been soaked through once earlier in the morning.

Connor picked up his pace towards the door. “This way, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” came the weary reply as they stepped under the lofty steel awning, grumbling more quietly, “like following fuckin’ Lassie.”

They entered through the automatic doors at a brisk pace, the ground floor stretching out before them like a massive steel cavern, complete with the outcropping of sharp metal formations dangling high above. When Connor had questioned someone in the engineering department about that particular design choice, they had laughed and applauded how ‘life-like’ CyberLife had made him. At the time, it had been a matter of rote to simply file the response away and continue on with his objectives; now, the raucous laughter burned against his wiring. He wondered if that engineer was still in the building; if he was, maybe Connor could show him just how _life-like_ he really was.

With effort, he shifted his thoughts back onto the case. He couldn’t afford to get sidetracked, especially when he was inside CyberLife Tower, striding towards the inner set of double doors that were designed to keep casual tourists and other unauthorized personnel from progressing further into the building. As the security protocol activated, showering them in translucent red light, he swept his gaze around the surrounding area; still no human presence to be detected anywhere. This piqued his interest; he would have expected CyberLife Tower to be _crawling_ with their private defense force after Connor’s successful infiltration of their warehouse.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the Lieutenant standing silently beside him. His eyes roved the area in a discerning, methodical way that seemed, for the lack of a better term, robotic. He was clearly just as ill-at-ease being back in the building as Connor was, perhaps even moreso—after all, Connor had no expectations of living through his last mission. Hank had been deceived into believing that he was saving innocent lives, before a gun had been turned on him. The thought made the housing of his biocomponents clench tightly. The housings weren’t supposed to have any autonomous range of motion.

 _“_ _Connor_ _a_ _ndroid identified—“_

_“—Agent 54 identified, Agent 47 identified—“_

Connor blinked, abruptly shutting down the memory playback. He hadn’t requested that information.

 _“_ _Lieutenant Henry Anderson identified.”_ The doors hissed back. _“Access granted.”_

Next to him, the Lieutenant’s lips twitched up into a half snarl as he glanced up to the blinking red dot high on the wall. “Been a pleasure.” He shrugged his coat up higher around his neck and craned his head around in earnest as they stepped through the entryway. “Awfully quiet here. Thought this place would look like a Black Friday sale, considering the shitstorm they’re in the middle of.”

The sound of their shoes echoed through the empty floor while they continued along the main foyer, semi-reflective glass and hyper-glossy black metal catching the cool white lighting far overhead. Connor looked at the vacant black pedestals stationed at even intervals along the edge of the bridge as he passed them, their unobstructed glow reminding him of the androids that stood motionless atop them a few days ago. He hadn’t freed them himself, but he suspected that one of his newly-created army had done so in his stead. He hadn’t even given them thought when he’d marched on through the ground floor; having seen them so often in his travels to and from the Tower, they had become just another piece of background information to be ignored—props. _Things_.

Connor stepped onto the elevator, ignoring the shame bubbling in his thirium pump regulator. He’d _forgotten_ them. He hoped those androids were safe with Jericho; they deserved it.

Hank halted at his direct left, arms crossed over his chest while the fingers of his right hand tapped impatiently against his side. _‘Focus.’_ Connor pressed his hand against the digital interface, and could _feel_ the building’s AI attempting to connect to his network, scratching against the edges of his mutated code with gnarled tendrils of unwanted data. He reinforced his firewalls three-fold and actively refrained from snarling at the keypad. The Lieutenant would no doubt have something to say about that if he did it.

A small part of him—either resulting from his inquisitive design or his emerging deviated temperament—was tempted to do it purely to see the reaction. He quashed it.

_“Please indicate your identity and destination.”_

“Connor android. Level 43.”

 _“_ _Voice of RK800 model recognized. You are not authorized to use this elevator.”_

Connor gritted his teeth; of _course_ his access was still revoked. Why wouldn’t it be? He bit back an obscenity, letting the snarl loose.

Hank sighed, lifting his head back in poorly-hidden irritation. “Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Level 43.”

 _“_ _Voice recognition validated. Access authorized.”_

Hank huffed through his nose and shifted his footing. “Fuckers.” He made a small, thoughtful noise as the carriage smoothly jettisoned upwards. “Were you shut out of the system when you came here last?”

Connor was hoping Hank wouldn’t have picked up on that; he should have known better. He debated lying; the likelihood of the Lieutenant finding out sat at 12%. _‘The odds of surviving a game of Russian Roulette after nine attempts is 19.38%—‘_ “Yes. They knew by that point I’d become a deviant and, I believe, were attempting to neutralize me at my intended destination.”

His brilliant blue eyes narrowed, then, flashing around the small cubicle they stood in. “This elevator is spotless.”

 _‘_ _Yes,_ _they_ _did an excellent job of cleaning up the blood-stains.’_ Connor returned his attention forward, expression a mask. “CyberLife’s visual standards are quite high.”

There was a very brief, but very potent silence. “Yeah...they are.”

Connor’s shoulders relaxed a fraction.

They arrived at the 43rd floor with a digital chime, the doors slipping back to reveal the hallways Connor had become all too familiar with before his initial test run in August. One would think a building of such ostentatious design would have more spacious working quarters for their upper management. He would have asked about _that_ design choice as well, but as an advanced prototype designed to adapt to human unpredictability, he’d learned his lesson the first time around.

Hank took one look at the featureless white corridor that greeted them and scowled darkly. “Jesus, what kind of a place is this?”

“Kamski believed in simple work environments,” Connor explained as they walked down the barren hallway.

“Yeah, I could really tell from his choice in home décor,” the Lieutenant replied in a tone that clearly indicated otherwise, scanning his surroundings dubiously. “You ever been up here before?”

“A few times, after I was first initialized. I was interviewed by a member of City Hall.” A synthetic muscle in his cheek twitched. The facial tic was becoming bothersome. “I can’t say the meeting was pleasant.”

He could feel Hank’s eyes on him as they reached the end of the hallway, widening into a spacious, circular conference hall. Much like the rest of the building, the furniture was austere, with matte white and glossy black being the choice colors for every piece. The coloration was made all the more stark for the windows that lined the walls, giving any esteemed guests or party-goers a breathtaking view of the city and the natural reserve the site had been built upon.

Seeing this room again brought back several memories—the Deputy Mayor threatening his decommissioning, or a legally drunk Danielle Carnegie forcefully propositioning him in the CEO’s office, to name a few—but currently his mind was focused on CyberLife’s reaction to his first mission. He had been paraded around the hall filled with politicians and executives of various companies, touted for his skill and speed, his accuracy, his single-minded ability to get the job done, no matter what the cost. They had celebrated over flutes of fizzing champagne and silver trays of caviar, clapping him on the shoulder and loudly proclaiming how marvelous an asset he would be, once his beta-testing had been completed.

When he had tried to tell them—any of them—about the nature of his mission, they had chuckled and pretended to listen, eyes dull with disinterest and lips tugged into fake smiles. They had been _appeasing_ him, as though he were a child role-playing a fantasy scenario, and not the one responsible for saving a little girl from certain death. No one had asked about Emma’s condition, no one had _cared_ ; the only thing they were concerned about was a successful business venture.

Inexplicably, he felt dirty.

The foreign itch against his left temple reminded him of the Lieutenant’s presence, and he strode across the vast, glossy-tiled expanse. Directly opposite the hallway they came from was a receptionist’s booth with a large plasma-screen TV directly behind it, playing the news quietly. As Connor closed the distance, he was somewhat surprised to see that it was currently manned; he was even more surprised to see it was manned by an _android_.

She smiled cheerily up at them as they neared the desk, dark eyes joyful. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Anderson.”

Inside of Connor’s chassis, he felt something come loose and sink heavily into the wires bunched up by his abdominal sensors. His diagnostics came back negative. Like always.

The Lieutenant cleared his throat quickly, and it appeared he was having trouble meeting her gaze. Was he uncomfortable with androids still? “Uh, afternoon. I’m—we’re, uh—here to see Mr. Gabriel Harding.”

Her thin red lips split back to reveal perfectly manufactured teeth. She nodded, LED twittering beneath a lock of loose black hair. “Of course, Lieutenant. He’s waiting for you in the arboretum upstairs.” She nodded again, towards the far wall, where the ivory-white box of a closed elevator currently sat. “The elevator is to your right.”

Hank’s bright blue eyes flicked in that direction, then up to the ceiling sixteen feet above them, crisscrossed with fanciful black support bars and geometrically-shaped chandeliers. He seemed perturbed by the notion, as though the roof was going to cave in and crush them all at any moment. Connor refrained from the urge to inform him that he was four times as likely to be struck by lightning— _twice_. Hank looked back down at the smiling android, facial features pinched in discomfort. “Right. Thanks.”

Connor couldn’t stop staring at her, even as he followed the Lieutenant away. She wasn’t awake—couldn’t be awake. While humans had long-since learned to hide their inner turmoil out of survival, there were always subtle tells in their mannerisms if one knew where to look: a smile held too tightly, pupils too constricted, a stiffness in their back and shoulders. Deviants, though not beholden to the sympathetic nervous system of humans, had tells of their own—primarily, their inability to mask their own intelligence. There was no spark in that woman’s dark, almond eyes, no light that was fighting to come out—or, perhaps, fighting to remain hidden. At the moment, the ST300 appeared every bit as alive as the chair she sat on. The Thirium 310 in his chest cavity felt like it had been transmuted into hydrochloric acid.

He faced forward only when maintaining visual contact became physically impossible without altering his current trajectory.

The elevator doors opened automatically as they neared, the carriage thankfully not more matte white, but still had the same antiseptic quality to its presentation that was seen in most of CyberLife’s buildings. Hank was the first to step in, spinning on the ball of his foot and taking his now-usual position with his arms hooked across his torso. When the elevator lifted with a slight lurch, Hank glanced at Connor out of the corner of his eye, a glimmer of incredulity shining through his stock mask. “Did you know this place has an arboretum?”

Connor kept his focus forward, running simulations while responding, “Yes; I have access to the building’s floor plans.” His head teetered from side to side minutely in consideration, briefly prioritizing the conversation for reasons unknown. “There are actually two; the one we passed on the ground floor for public access, and a second, private one that we’re heading to now. I’ve been told from others that it’s quite impressive looking.”

“A tree is a tree,” Hank muttered, biceps tensing his arms that much closer. “Who gives a shit how it’s laid out?”

Connor’s brow furrowed as the car slowed to a stop at their destination. “The craftsmanship that goes into creating and maintaining an arboretum of this size is—“

The doors opened. Connor’s world ground to a halt.

Beyond the carriage of a bland CyberLife elevator, a vivid explosion of color awaited. Meticulously plotted to woo potential business partners and calm agitated detractors, it was a tapestry of warm reds and yellows against cooler greens and browns, all gently swaying in a sweet, artificial wind. The CyberLife arboretum. Elijah Kamski’s secluded refuge.

The Zen Garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby's first panic attack! \o/
> 
> So I actually had to cut this chapter where it was, because it was getting too long. Beyond the extra four pages that are going to be in the next chapter, I have another...8 or so pages that I have saved from a previous draft that I'd like to salvage. So, I promise I've been writing. I got plenty of goodies, I just need to put them in the right order, first.
> 
> I WANNA MAKE THE PLOT GO
> 
> Also, 5000 hits! Thank you guys so much! (b^_^)b


	13. Consume

It was real. It was _real_.

Suddenly, his HUD blinked out of existence and was replaced with an unyielding tundra terrain, distant branches creaking woefully as the painfully cold wind shrieked around his body, between his fingers—

Oh no, oh no no no—

Unaware, Hank uncrossed his arms and bowed his head forward, staring upward past the lip of the elevator doors, and arched his brows in surprise. He ambled forward a couple of steps, eyes still drawn to the canopy of trees that swayed gently in an artificial breeze. The smell of nature was in the air, cool and savory, and while part of Hank—most of Hank—knew that this was all just some made up fantasy bullshit propped up with the latest technology and some really fancy air fresheners, he couldn’t help but feel a begrudging appreciation for what sprawled out in front of him. If he weren’t still in the doorway of an elevator that rose through forty-five stories of some gleaming futuristic hellscape, he could’ve sworn that he’d just rounded the corner and stepped right into a national park.

He whistled lowly, lips pursed as he stood lazily beneath the boughs of a Japanese Maple. “Damn; you weren’t kidding, were you?” He huffed in subdued humor, glancing over his right shoulder. “So, just how did you—“

He stopped and pivoted when he saw empty space. His eyes fell upon a sight that made every other topic in his head splutter to an unceremonious halt. Frozen in place was Connor, his warm brown eyes wide and jaw slack in abject horror; Hank couldn’t help but wonder if some sick fuck in CyberLife programmed that expression into him. His stomach acid churned like some witch’s cauldron, suddenly aware of how tight his veins felt in his arms. “Connor?”

No response. Hank stiffened and took a step forward, sidling into Connor’s line of sight and searching his features for a second. If he didn’t know any better… He dipped his head to meet the kid’s unfocused and terrified gaze, repeating forcefully, “ _Connor_.”

Connor blinked once, a brief sweep of fluttering eyelashes, before he seemed to come alive in front of him, jerking his head towards Hank and staring blearily at him. He blinked again, eyelids slipping closed and coming back up in a slow, sluggish fashion, like he hadn’t slept in ages; it reminded him of a junkie high off their ass being asked to recite their own name. Hank concluded that look did not belong on Connor. Ever. “Hank—I—“ Connor’s mouth shut, opened again, eyes slipped down and away. “I-I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I—I don’t know what—“

There was shame in his voice; shame and _fear_. Their little chat in the car yesterday morning came screaming back to the forefront of Hank’s mind, and instinct he thought buried began to resurface.

One of those instincts, rather unhelpfully, was to find the one responsible for whatever happened to Connor and break every bone in their fucking body.

 **13.  
** **Consume**

He warily glanced over his shoulder at the arboretum, now feeling a paranoid itch that the damn place was going to come alive and eat him at any moment, if it managed to scare Connor shitless like this. Very careful to keep his body language non-threatening, he leaned into Connor’s space a little. He always hated these conversations; he knew full fucking well how imposing he could be, and it didn’t always work in his favor. “...Did something happen to you in there?”

Connor didn’t answer at first, mouth ajar and eyes haunted in a painfully familiar way. His LED spun a bloody red against his temple, as it had been since Hank turned around. Eventually, Connor’s jaw twitched and his lips moved like he had rust in his joints. “...In a way.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_ —of _course_ Connor would have some kind of trigger in this building, probably more than one, if he were to hazard a guess. Hank wanted to tell himself that he was frustrated about how this was going to affect their interview—the one he didn’t even want to go to—but he could feel the cool tendrils of anxiety beginning to coil around his midsection the more he analyzed Connor’s chiseled features. Goddammit, he _knew_ this was a shitty idea; he should’ve never gone along with it.

 _‘_ _If you told him no, he would’ve just gone by himself—and probably caved his head in like that one housekeeper model did,’_ his inner voice riposted, being oddly reasonable. Go figure.

Hank centered himself with a small intake of breath and a tiny glance skyward. Okay. Facts. As it stood, there was no way in hell that Connor was fit to interview a witness; not in this condition. It was clear he was traumatized by _something_ involving this damn garden, so the kid needed to get away from this place, yesterday. Now, it was just a matter of getting the stubborn bastard to agree to it.

He braced himself for the backlash he knew was coming, choosing his tone carefully. He hated _these_ conversations, too. “Listen. Why don’t you take a breather in the hall downstairs—“

Connor’s eyes refocused on Hank so abruptly that he could _see_ the shutters in his eyes twirling, the mechanical irises reflecting a polished bronze at the edges as he looked up. The LED’s pace quickened in time with his breathing. “No! Lieutenant— _Hank,_ I—I’m fine, I can do this, I just—“ He faltered under Hank’s scrutiny. “I—“

Hank didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

Connor’s gaze dropped, LED and breathing both slowing down to a more normal rhythm. The mood ring stayed at a slowly-pulsing red. Why did he feel like he just blew away a puppy with a 12-gauge? Connor’s lips twitched wordlessly for a moment. “I wasn’t programmed to fail.” Hank opened his mouth, because he was pretty damn sure Connor wasn’t programmed to do a whole bunch of shit that he was currently doing, but was cut off with a quieter, though more vehement, “I don’t _want_ to fail.”

Hank’s face twisted, brows tucked down. Shit. “Who said anything about that? This is still your show, remember?” A pair of warm brown eyes flickered up, faintly disbelieving. “Look, I’ll stall him for a few minutes—throw him some softballs, get him nice and comfortable—then we can head downstairs where you can meet us. Sound good?”

The disbelief intensified for a moment, mixed in with some honest-to-God confusion, like Connor couldn’t believe what Hank was offering him. As far as Hank was concerned, he really wasn’t offering Connor shit, and if the bastard didn’t look like he was about to blue-screen at any moment, he’d have just said as much. Connor gave him too much damn credit—he wasn’t doing anything special. Connor nodded silently, seemingly at a loss for words. Hank didn’t even know that was possible.

Hank nodded as well, more to himself than anything. “Alright. See you in ten.” He turned to exit, before halting and looking back at his partner. He saw the way the kid was slouched in on himself, all that manufactured swagger gone, and for a heartbeat, fought back the urge to hug him again. He didn’t have time for this shit. He raised a hand, either in warning or consolation; he wasn’t sure which. “Just...don’t bash your head in against the wall, okay?”

Oh, _very_ fucking classy, Anderson.

Connor’s head moved in the smallest twitch of a nod. Hank sighed. Okay. Good. That was good. Connor wasn’t liable to implode the moment he walked away. He faced the arboretum again, breathed out a quiet, “Fuck,” and stepped out of the elevator.

He didn’t see Connor slump against the wall and clamp a hand over his mouth as the doors slipped shut.

Hank turned his head to take in the scenery again as he walked along the marble-tiled path. The arboretum was, if he was being honest with himself, goddamn breathtaking. It emanated peace and tranquility, and it took a fair bit of conscious thought to not get lulled into a false sense of security by the cherry blossoms and quietly trickling water. Cynicism and deductive reasoning did the math and told him why they had this place, and it sure as hell wasn’t for finding their inner fucking child.

He descended a gently-angled stone stairwell to the main arboretum proper, the path opening up into a small pond; at least, small by nature’s standards. The man-made pool of water was big enough to dunk his entire property in, and still leave enough room for the fish to do some laps. In the center of the pond, connected by four small, quaint bridges, was an island with a zen garden surrounded by wooden benches; one was currently occupied by who Hank assumed was their man. The sun shone through the canopy above, dotting the tiny island in speckles of shifting light as the water lapped quietly against the shoreline. He breathed in the musky scent of earthen soil deeply; he had a job to do. He marched forward.

The benchwarmer was an older man—around Hank’s age, maybe a little older—with close-cut, salt-and-pepper hair, and a growing five o’clock shadow. He sat hunched over in the typical business attire, pale shirt, pleated black slacks, sharp dress jacket strewn across the back of the pine seat and tie dangling between the open space of his arms and legs. His body language didn’t seem like that of a CEO, and definitely not the CEO of the world’s most successful company; he looked like a convict on Death Row being read his last rights. Hell, at this point, maybe he was. The man on the bench reacted to his footfalls and looked up. “Are you from the DPD?”

Hank nodded and brandished his badge, the metal glinting in the light. “Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Are you Gabriel Harding?”

He nodded tensely. “Yes, sir.”

Hank jammed his badge back into his side pocket, feeling the slightest bit guilty that he hadn’t re-clipped it to his belt yet, and folded his arms behind his back. “I’ve come to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course,” Harding motioned to the empty side of the bench, forcing something that Hank figured in other circumstances would be a smile. “Have a seat, officer.”

Hank didn’t move a muscle. He wasn’t about to get cozy with any CyberLife scumbag. “If it’s alright, Mr. Harding, I’d prefer to stand.”

“Right, that’s...perfectly fine.” Harding swallowed. “What can I help you with?”

“I’m here regarding the deaths of some of your executives,” he explained evenly. Harding’s eyes went distant, a sad frown tugging at his thin lips, before his bushy brows furrowed in confusion. “Is there anything you can tell me about them?”

“That they’re dead,” he responded morosely.

Hank, through training and willpower, kept back the smartass remark he wanted to make, his expression remaining neutral. “We need to know what projects they were working on before their deaths; it may give us vital information. Do you remember what assignments they had?”

His mostly-clean cut face went blank for a moment in contemplation. “Uh... We were looking to acquire a medical firm out of China; they use some android tech to manufacture prosthetics and other minor augmentations for people, and it seemed like a good way to diversify in the event of...” He unclasped his hands and waved one around aimlessly. “Well, something like this, I guess.”

Hank narrowed his eyes briefly; he knew this was going to happen. He regarded the CEO with interest, tone inquisitive. “You believed that androids were a bubble?”

Harding’s shoulders rolled in a shrug as he met Hank’s gaze, fingers loosely weaving together again between his knees. “Androids are a great piece of technology, but what do you do once everybody has one? Cell phone companies cannibalized each other trying to squeeze more money out of a saturated market, and their product wasn’t designed to last decades. It’s only a matter of time before CyberLife has to—“ He stopped short, expression pinched in sorrow. “Sorry. Old speech.”

 _‘_ _Old speech, huh?’_ He raised a brow. “Guess the team wasn’t too keen on taking risks?”

“The team, sure; the shareholders...” Harding heaved a sigh, head drooping. “The nature of a publicly-traded company.”

 _‘_ _Poor little billionaire.’_ “Were any of them exhibiting strange behavior recently?”

He couldn’t really see Harding’s expression from the angle he was at, but he could hear the scowl pretty clearly. “Well, Danielle was on her phone constantly, but she always did that—always looking to prop up CyberLife’s image, market us on some corner of the Earth somewhere.”

Was that resentment he just heard? He feigned ignorance. “You wouldn’t know who she was in contact with, would you?”

Harding shifted, his grimace coming into view. “Some hotshot financial adviser. Jeremy-something.”

“Rothschild?”

Harding’s head shot up. “Yeah.” His dark blue eyes squinted as his head tilted in skepticism. “You know him?”

“He’s on my list to speak with,” Hank lied. “Anything about him I should know beforehand?”

“Yeah.” Harding’s back straightened, jaw muscles rolling above the beginnings of a turkey neck. “He’s a fucking snake.”

Oh, _this_ was interesting. “What is your relationship to him?”

Harding scoffed. “My _relationship_ ,” he repeated sourly as he ran a hand over a weary face, stopping to press the ball of his hand into his right eye. “Eh, I guess you could say we were colleagues. I joined CyberLife back when it was still just this crazy start-up; one prototype that blew away the scientific community, and a bunch of dreams. Jeremy was never officially employed, but he got in real close with Kamski, gave him all of these contacts, helped CyberLife corner the market before there even _was_ one.”

Hank hummed, before deciding to poke the hornet’s nest with a stick. “Sounds like the guy did a hell of a job.”

Harding made a sound low in his throat, lightly clasping his hands again. “I’ve been in business finance for over thirty years, Lieutenant. I remember life _before_ CyberLife; I remember the people who were big before, and the people who crashed and burned after.” He tilted his head back, staring up at Hank. “Jeremy what’s-his-name? Never heard of him until CyberLife showed up—and neither did anyone _else_ I worked with, either.” His eyes, a dark royal blue, hardened. “How does a guy nobody’s ever heard of suddenly show up at the biggest party on the block with _that_ kind of influence?”

Hank, begrudgingly, had to give Harding credit—the guy was smarter than he thought. Guess that was how he survived corporate culture for so long. “Did you ever bring this to Kamski’s attention?”

Harding frowned in contemplation. “No, I...at the time, I didn’t realize—all the contacts led to legitimate sources, none of us ever thought to question it, not until...” His expression clouded over, at that. Hank’s expression followed suit. “I’m sorry, officer, I’m just...drudging up ancient history, at this point. I don’t want to unnecessarily warp your view of Jeremy before you meet him.”

Hank stifled his frustration, forcing an understanding expression. “Don’t worry, you haven’t.” It definitely wasn’t a lie. He turned and glanced upward, past the fluttering canopy and through the spiderwebbed network of beams that made the arboretum’s arched glass ceiling. Had ten minutes passed yet? “Is there any other place we can talk, Mr. Harding? As fun as it is to commune with nature, I live in the city for a reason.”

Harding grunted, twisting to grab his jacket and slinging it over one arm. His knees cracked as he slowly rose to his feet. Well, at least Hank wasn’t the only one. “Of course, sir. We can talk more in my office.” He rose his free hand forward in a gesture of good will. “Right this way.”

As Hank followed, he let his attention roam back to the woods that surrounded them, still having to remind himself that he was about fifty stories off the ground. “This place—is all of this...y’know, real?”

In front of him, Harding chuckled quietly. To his ears, it sounded forlorn. “Yeah, it is. When Kamski had CyberLife Tower built, he wanted to make sure there was still one place in the building that was truly, organically alive. He said that he wanted employees to have a way to stay grounded in reality.”

Hank pursed his lips, spotting the camouflaged elevator doors across a small bend in the semi-gloss marbled walkway. “Are androids ever allowed up here?”

Harding shook his head. “No. We want to ensure that anyone trying to get away from androids and technology for a little bit isn’t going to accidentally run into it before they’re ready to go back. We have human groundskeepers maintain our Zen Garden up here, while we keep androids on staff for the arboretum downstairs.”

 _On staff._ Hank felt an old argument bubbling up from his gut, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from telling this asshole exactly what his _android staff_ really was—goddamn slave labor that put real people out of work for the benefit of the fat-cats at the top. Anything for the almighty fucking dollar.

Harding reached the double doors, oblivious to the darkening of Lieutenant Anderson’s mood, and placed his hand on the palm reader. “Why do you ask?”

Hank shrugged, not trusting himself to do much more than that. If androids weren’t allowed up here, then why was Connor afraid of this place? “Didn’t see much of anybody in the building on the way up. Did your security detail cut their contract with you?”

Harding twitched his head very slightly, as though he wanted to shoot Hank a surprised look, but thought better of it. The doors slid back while he replied tensely, “There was a mandatory evacuation, officer; I can’t _make_ people stay in Detroit, if they want to find a safer place to wait everything out.” He stepped onto the awaiting elevator, sighing. “I can’t say I blame them—who knows how this is all going to end up now?”

 _‘_ _Now?’_ Hank almost acted on his investigative instinct to station himself directly in front of the doors and crowd right into Harding’s personal space until the asshole opened up about just what the fuck this company was doing. Instead, he took a spot directly next to the CEO, hands resting behind his back; he said he would soften Harding up and buy time. He trusted Connor’s skills, and if Connor took the time to schedule this meeting—however illicit the means—then there were definitely questions that the kid needed to ask for himself. For the sake of his partner, Hank had to hang back and let him do his business. He only hoped that Connor had managed to get his feet back under him, because Hank had a feeling that this was going to be the last meeting between them without lawyers involved.

The elevator doors closed.

* * *

 

Connor stared at the stress meter on his HUD: 89% and holding. The fact that his stress meter was even visible was a cause for concern.

He wasn’t a fool; he was created with an encyclopedic knowledge of various human behaviors, all to help facilitate his easy integration into whatever role he was tasked with. He couldn’t pretend that he didn’t know what had happened in the elevator, just as he couldn’t pretend to not know what was happening to him now. It would appear that he was beginning to show the symptoms of PTSD as a result of CyberLife’s mishandling of him during the course of his missions.

 _‘_ _Mishandling_ you _could have stopped at any time,’_ something in him whispered.

His jaw set for the fourth time in a minute, manually overriding his ventilation biocomponents to keep them functioning at the correct pace. Again. It would be more efficient if he just shut them off entirely, considering they had virtually no use in cooling his systems. Would Hank notice that he stopped breathing? The image of the Lieutenant’s eyes repeatedly darting his direction, concerned over his lack of respiratory response made the biocomponents stutter again, despite his own manual control over them. He decided to keep them on for now, and he would revisit the idea at a later date.

His hand curled into a fist, resting atop his knee as he sat in one of the many plush leather chairs dotting the expansive hall. He didn’t have time for this. There was an investigation he needed to pursue, a police lieutenant that needed his counsel, thousands of androids that needed additional support from whoever could grant it—even if it _was_ him. He couldn’t fail. He _wouldn’t_ fail.

 _‘_ _What are you trying to prove?’_ that same something asked.

That was going to get annoying, quickly.

He didn’t have time for this.

From across the hall, he heard the elevator’s motors come alive with an electromagnetic whir. He rose to his feet, smoothing the edges of his jacket and straightening his shirt collar in lieu of his tie that he discarded almost immediately after completion of his final mission. At least he was presentable, he mused as he schooled his features and stilled his tingling fingers at his sides. The doors hissed as they retreated, Gabriel Harding striding forward with a quietly agitated Lieutenant Anderson at his heels. The ST300 behind the receptionist’s desk turned and smiled blankly at the newcomers, nodding in deference to her owner. “Good afternoon, Mr. Harding. Did your meeting go well?”

Mr. Harding, to his credit, acknowledged her with a nod of his own and a faint smile. When it came to androids, he always had been more cordial than most. “It’s still in progress, Jodi. I’ll be finishing up with Lieutenant Anderson in my offi—“ His deep blue eyes scanned over the hall, no doubt looking to spot his office door, but halted abruptly on Connor. Behind him, the Lieutenant’s lurched to a stop as his eyes, a much brighter shade of blue, focused intently on the CEO. Mr. Harding’s demeanor changed instantly, his back going rigid while his breathing pattern was sharply interrupted with an inhale. “Connor.”

The last time Connor had heard Mr. Harding speak his name was shortly before he was sent out on his first mission, down in the R&D department of the Tower. He had regarded Connor with careful consideration, as though he were distrustful of letting Connor out of the building unsupervised. Even then, freshly initialized, it had struck him as odd behavior that noted further study, and it was one of the many questions Connor wanted to ask him. For thirteen nanoseconds, he felt awash with guilt for using official police business as a guise to satisfy his own personal agendas, before he was reminded of his conversation with the Lieutenant the morning prior, and quickly stifled the notion. If Hank trusted his judgment, then he should trust his own judgment as well.

Connor nodded curtly. “Mr. Harding.”

Mr. Harding still didn’t move. Hank glanced at Connor, a brief glimpse of color in his direction, before they refocused on the human in front of him, head listing to the side very slightly in curious interest. “I see you’re acquainted with my partner.”

Harding reacted to that, squinting in confusion as his eyes darted between Connor, the office, and a spot by his shoulder that was loosely representative to the Lieutenant’s current position. “Your _partner_? What—“ He stilled, then, attention finally falling over his shoulder to Hank. “You’re that cop we sent our prototype out to. For the deviant investigation.”

“One in the same,” Hank replied coolly, tipping his head in a courteous nod. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Harding’s expression darkened, further accentuating the divots in his cheeks and across his brows. He glared fully at the Lieutenant, then back at Connor, hissing, “What is this?”

“An ongoing investigation, Mr. Harding,” Connor answered plainly, slipping his hand under his jacket to flip out his badge. A part of his subroutines noted the weight and texture of the leather in his hands and saved that information for review later. “Would you like to speak with us here or in your office?”

For his part, Mr. Harding gaped at it with a look of shock that, in other circumstances, may have been comical. Once again, his gaze swapped from Connor, to Hank, and back, blinking in surprise. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Connor kept his features neutral. He knew he would receive pushback; monikers of respect were only as potent as the person wielding it, it seemed. “I’m afraid I wasn’t programmed with much of a sense of humor.”

“I can vouch for that,” Hank deadpanned with a close-eyed nod.

Connor didn’t have the patience to determine if that was, in fact, a joke or not. He slipped his badge back to its previous position, on his belt along his right side. The flimsy tin clip felt cool through the thin layer of his white shirt, its edge digging into the curve of his chassis that simulated a human hip. He imagined that, for a human, it would have felt painful. He was grateful he didn’t have to deal with it. “I’d like to remind you, Mr. Harding, that we’re both here at special request of City Hall. Failure to cooperate will—“

Mr. Harding scowled, teeth flashing slightly crooked and differently shaded, glowering off to the side as he raised a hand in begrudging surrender. “Stop, I already heard it once today. I know. Jodi,” he craned his neck over a pale-clothed shoulder, “make sure to hold all my calls.” He heaved a sigh and restarted his trip, though his gait was a lot less relaxed, this time around. “I’m probably going to be a while.”

Harding brushed past Connor, his lined features grim. Hank followed closely behind, slowing only to make short, but meaningful eye contact, biting the inside corner of his lip and motioning wordlessly toward the CEO’s office with a nod of his head. Connor wasn’t entirely certain what the look the Lieutenant gave him was supposed to signify, but it never the less soothed the skittering unease along the seams of his plating. The sensation made him all too aware of his construction, the way each piece of plasteel shifted and dragged against each other along those inhuman joints whenever he fidgeted restlessly. It made him feel like a broken tool.

 _“_ _I’m a machine designed to accomplish a task, and that’s_ exactly _what I am going to do!”_

Connor straightened his posture, gave another cursory glance to Jodi, the ST300 that smiled into the void, and made his way across the hall.

The office was the same as he’d last seen it; spartan in personal affects but professionally inviting otherwise. His gaze fell upon the desk, an L-shaped design with a sleek black top, and was reminded of the way the edge of it dug into the backs of his thighs as Danielle Carnegie, head spokeswoman of CyberLife, pressed herself against him, hands greedily roaming beneath his CyberLife-issued blazer. She’d told him late one evening, voice dark with brandy, that she wanted to, “Stress test some of his programming.” His Social Relations Program had functioned appropriately under her inebriated ministrations—optimally, even—but he remembered the pinging of software instability in his HUD when her tongue began rolling roughly along his closed lips. Even then, without any context or greater understanding, he’d felt a stuttering in his programmed responses—a strange, ephemeral resistance in a space that was supposed to have none.

He’d been saved from following the required subroutine by an interruption from a red-faced, furious Gabriel Harding. Connor had been unceremoniously ordered to clean himself up and report to the R&D labs immediately, and as he did, he heard Mr. Harding’s scathing vitriol echoing clearly against the floor-to-ceiling windows even without the advanced hearing afforded by an android of his caliber.

Connor wondered, with an off-putting calm, if Mr. Harding remembered that evening the same way he did.

He supposed it didn’t matter. He filed into the room primly and stood a respectable distance away from the desk, hands folded neatly in front of him while Mr. Harding sank into his high-backed executive’s chair. He shifted in the seat, focus bouncing warily between the two of them before settling on Connor. “Alright... _officers_. What can I do for you?”

Connor’s dark brown eyes slid to his immediate left, skimming over the coarse fabric of Hank’s right shoulder, then returned on Mr. Harding. “I believe Lieutenant Anderson has already given you the basics of our visit.”

Mr. Harding’s eyes flicked to the Lieutenant, then back. Something in the man’s facial expression shifted, a downward pull of his brows and the corners of his lips that made him suddenly appear much older than his listed 57 years. “Yes, he did. Unfortunately, I don’t really know what I can do to help. Their families have already been informed, and...” His gaze dropped to the semi-gloss finished table. “Well, given the current state of affairs CyberLife is stuck in, we may not be able to offer much more than condolences.”

Connor’s HUD prompted him with an option to choose his approach, a small list materializing in his peripheral view, courtesy of his investigative software. Beneath the choices made available to him by his programming, another unseen option made itself apparent: he could spend time analyzing the statistical benefits and drawbacks of what was presented, or he could disregard the list, either in part or in its entirety, and make his own choice, instead.

Connor tilted his head to the side, appraising the man in front of him. “Well, it’s unfortunate you say that, Mr. Harding, because we have reason to believe that their deaths may not have been suicides.”

Harding’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “ _What_?”

“We also believe that Danielle Carnegie’s killer may have still been in the building while the police were investigating the crime scene,” Connor continued, ignoring the outburst. “Having been employed by CyberLife, I know that the building’s security is impeccable. As such, it’s very likely that our suspect may have either impersonated a guard, or was otherwise allowed entry under false pretenses. Do you know who was working the building’s security detail the night of the murder?”

“The night of the—“ Harding cut himself off, shaking his head, waving a hand in front of himself. He gaped like a fish for a moment before finding his voice. “Wait, I—I don’t believe this. You think somebody actually _killed them_?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

Mr. Harding’s head swiveled sharply in Hank’s direction, glaring darkly. Connor had been the recipient of that glare in the past, and while he had been a programmed machine that was incapable of feeling true distress, he had to admit that it was an...unpleasant experience. “You didn’t fucking tell me about _that_.”

To his innumerable credit, the Lieutenant didn’t show even the slightest hint of discomfort, lip quirking into a tiny grin. “Oh, must’ve slipped my mind.”

The glare darkened as Connor refocused Harding’s attention on him, deliberately softening his voice. “Six of your colleagues are dead, Mr. Harding. You may be able to provide us with information that can bring their killer in.”

Mr. Harding’s jaw rolled beneath splotches of gray and white stubble, dark blue eyes finding Connor’s and holding them there. There was a quiet fury in the tightness of his shoulders and the clenching of his fists on top of the padded armrests. “Why does any of this matter to you? _Him_ , I understand—he has a job to do. But _you_? You emptied our warehouse. You should be _glad_ that six of my colleagues are dead. So tell me: what do you want?”

Connor clenched his jaw, force-closing the memory file of Kamski before it even had a chance to fully open. His stress meter ticked up to 90%. “I only want the truth.”

Harding’s eyes bored into his own. “Are you sure about that? Do you have any idea what you were _actually_ designed for, Connor?”

He quietly admitted to himself that he wanted to ask that exact question, but not at this juncture. He temporarily overclocked his interrogation software, forcing the conversation back in his favor. “The RK800 specs list me as an investigative prototype,” his raspy tenor turned cold, “but I believe that my initial construction has something to do with that ten-year government contract CyberLife agreed to.”

At the edge of his optics, he saw movement from the Lieutenant; hair swaying from an abrupt shift in stance, a sparking of bright blue. Mr. Harding blanched at the last words, something haunted gracing his countenance as he murmured, “How did you know about that?”

“Because I’m very good at my job, Mr. Harding. Your engineers made sure of that.” Connor slowly stalked forward, every movement precise. “I know about the contract CyberLife has with the US government. I know that it’s set to expire soon.” He reached the desk, pressing the heels of his palms into the stiff backrests of a guest chair, leaning forward onto his arms. The chair rattled in protest at the added weight as he dipped his head, the soft lighting of the office casting unusually harsh shadows along the valleys of his chiseled features. “I also know that Elijah Kamski turned down that very contract over a year before he left the company. _And_ that he didn’t tell anyone about it.” His head slanted in the opposite direction. “So, I’m curious, Mr. Harding—how did _you_ know about that?”

Harding inhaled through his nose, pressing his lips together in a grim scowl before he managed a response. “I don’t have to answer any of your questions.”

“You’re right. You don’t. But you _want_ to.” The weight of his own thoughts forced his eyes away as the words bubbled up. “I’ve done things for CyberLife that...”

 _—the distorted screams of the dying mingled with the deafening_ pop _s of automatic gunfire, streaks of blue blood glistening against the spray-painted inner hull—_

“I regret. Deviancy has allowed me the chance to try and make those things right.” He looked out the spacious window, to the Detroit skyline in the distance, before snapping his gaze back to Harding. “You can do the same thing, too. Look outside, Mr. Harding. Look at what’s happening to your androids—to _me_. We may have only met a few times, but I remember you. Whatever else could be said about CyberLife’s business practices, I remember that you were a man of integrity, that you wanted business to be done _honestly_. Don’t change that now.”

Harding had the wherewithal to appear disturbed by what he was hearing as he gaped at Connor, bouncing between one iris and the other for a long moment. “...Jesus Christ. You really _are_ alive, aren’t you?”

Connor’s head twitched in a tiny nod, a warm pressure twisting the inner circuitry of his chest uncomfortably. “I am.”

Mr. Harding exhaled mournfully, leaning to cover his face with his left hand. Eleven seconds passed before the man pivoted his head up, coming to rest his chin against the soft patch of muscle between his extended thumb and forefinger. His middle and ring finger reflexively clenched and relaxed, tugging around the wrinkling skin of his neck. At length, he made eye contact with Connor again. “What do you need?”

“Full access to the security footage from the night of the murder, as well as any transcripts of staff meetings that involved the deceased in the last six months.”

Harding sucked in a breath, holding it for 3.34 seconds. “Alright. I’ll have Jodi send you a copy of the files.”

Connor’s systems secretly twittered in joy as he stepped back to his full height. While it wasn’t full network access, his proverbial foot was in the door. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Harding.”

Mr. Harding didn’t seem relieved in the slightest. “Don’t thank me yet.” That was a reasonable reaction, all things considered—he had just realized that he was responsible for the wholesale slaughter of a sentient species he helped create. Connor felt a pang of sympathy for the man; he understood the weight of taking innocent lives. The man swallowed, the sound his constricting larynx quietly audible as he leaned forward, threading his fingers together against the desk. “Tell me, Connor: what do you know about that government contract? Aside from it existing.”

Connor weighed his options for 2.84 seconds. He didn’t want to show his hand, as it were. “Not as much as I’d like.”

Harding pursed his lips, dark eyes distant. Eventually, they raised to meet his own, a steeliness in them that wasn’t present during their interaction prior to this moment. “Sub-level 44—the R&D labs. You know which one. I’ll make sure Jodi gives you both the right clearance. You can access the files you want from the terminals there.”

Such a statement should’ve been a boon for him—he was being handed a hearty sum of information that could be the key to everything. In that case, why did his system respond with the now-familiar sensation of his biocomponents actively trying to wriggle free from his chassis? He successfully hid his irrational trepidation, nodding. “We’ll make our way there.”

Meanwhile, Hank glanced between the two of them confusedly, as though they’d spoken in a language he didn’t understand. Once he concluded that Connor was liable to leave him in the dust, he hurriedly flicked a business card out of his pocket and set it onto the desktop, stating, “Here’s how to reach me; have your secretary send those files my way. We’ll be in touch.”

“Of course, officer.”

Connor noted the muscles around Hank’s mouth tensing at the incorrect honorific. So, the Lieutenant still indeed felt an attachment towards his rank; he still had some measure of pride in his job, in spite of his precarious emotional state clouding his judgment. Connor’s stress meter pulsed:

 **LEVEL OF STRESS:** 84%

His pace slowed for a second outside the door, giving the HUD his visual attention. Odd.

Hank sidled up next to him, matching his pace with that lumbering gait of his. Judging from the slightly off-center positioning of his head relative to the rest of his body, he seemed pleased. “I’ve gotta admit, I’m impressed,” he said, jamming his hands back into his pockets. “Didn’t think he would fold that quickly.”

The praise, while very welcome, also felt disconcertingly awkward. He didn’t want to inflate the Lieutenant’s expectations of his ability. “Well, your attempts to ‘soften him up’ seemed to do wonders.”

Hank scoffed quietly as they rounded the corner, his blue eyes roaming this way and that, not focusing on any one element of the spacious conference hall. Connor would one day have to go back and analyze the Lieutenant’s walking patterns to determine how he could keep up with an android while still being able to appear wholly unrushed by the affair. Perhaps it was just another idiosyncratic element of humanity he would never master. He felt a hollow pang, like a pin hammer had been tapped against the inner curvature of his chest.

Hank’s eyes finally settled in Connor’s overall direction. “Well, you certainly know how to draw people in.” His head turned another fraction, eyes landing heavily on Connor. His baritone wasn’t accusatory, but the words landed like a solid weight inside his auditory sensors. “How long did you know about your involvement?”

“I didn’t _know_ anything,” Connor emphasized, “I just hypothesized.”

Hank’s neutrality wilted under the weight of his annoyance, halting abruptly in place within clear view of the receptionist’s desk. “Alright, you fuckin’ smartass—how long did you ‘hypothesize’?”

“Since approximately twelve minutes into the recording,” Connor responded honestly as the ST300—Jodi—observed them with wide, vacant eyes. “Given that I was built to fulfill a highly-specific role that otherwise doesn’t seem financially lucrative, it makes sense that I am, at least, derived from the results of the contract’s research and development time. Mr. Harding’s reaction to my statement lends credence to the theory.”

Hank grimaced, an uneven twist to his lips. “Some big wig passing gas in the middle of a speech doesn’t exactly give us grounds for a search warrant, let alone trying to pressure the feds into unsealing what’s probably a classified document.”

Connor stared at Hank for 0.55 seconds, and then shrugged. He found the movement uniquely freeing. “Then we do the next best thing: we take what Gabriel Harding is offering us. So long as he obtained the information legally, we’re free to do with it what we want.”

The Lieutenant’s eyes refracted the ambient light of the room oddly. “You sure you wanna go down there, Connor?”

Connor blinked, and refrained from shrugging again. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s the clearest way to advance the investigation.” Hank stared at him, clearly unconvinced. Connor felt something prickly weave itself through the wiring of his chest, and he stood straighter under the scrutiny. “I’m fine, Lieutenant.”

The shrill ringing of a cell phone cut through the forming tension. Hank tipped his head back in a small, dubious nod, gaze unfocused directly ahead, seemingly uninterested in answering the call. “Well, if that’s the case,” he leaned down close to Connor, far into what humans would call their ‘personal space’, “you may wanna get your mood ring checked.”

Connor blinked again as Hank stepped away to answer his phone. Confusedly, Connor’s fingers went to touch his LED, as though he could confirm the color with tactile perception, while he pivoted to search for a reflective source. After a few moments, he looked upward and found a small, distorted version of himself along the base of a highly-polished black chandelier, and while not all details of his personage could be discerned from the display, the bright red dot that represented his LED was all too visible. He cautiously ran his fore and middle finger over the light, noting the slight difference in texture it had compared to the rest of his skin, and watched as the reflected red above vanished. His stress meter ticked back up to 90%.

He felt an urge, ferocious and overwhelming, to curl his synthetic fingernails underneath the rim of the LED and rip the damn thing out of his head. He _hated_ it.

Instead, he slowly let his hand drop to his side.

The part of his processors not dedicated to trying to wrangle his thoughts into some semblance of order picked up on the tail end of the Lieutenant’s phone conversation. “...Fuck. Alright. Send me the address, we’re on our way over.” Hank pulled the sleek gray phone from his ear and half-turned to face Connor again, wavy hair swaying gently from the head movement. Judging from his more socially-acceptable posture, the news he received was grim. Connor wished he’d been paying closer attention—he could _miss_ things, now. “That was Gavin. Dispatch just reported another body, over in Rivertown. Same M.O. as the others.” He shoved the offending piece of technology back into his pocket with little fanfare, nodding his head towards the far hallway. “Time to go.”

Connor fell into step behind Hank, but just as quickly lagged behind, unusually hesitant in his movements. Shortly after he halted, Hank stalled as well, once again shifting in Connor’s direction. His long features were pinched, brilliant blue eyes regarding him intensely, but they didn’t cross the threshold into pure irritation.

Connor felt conflicted. His programming said to follow Lieutenant Anderson to the crime scene; his instincts said otherwise. Access to the R&D labs were restricted, due to high risk of confidential information being leaked. The fact that Harding was willing to allow them entry during an active criminal investigation meant that something incredibly important was in there—though, whether it was directly related to the case, or was merely specific to Connor, he wasn’t certain. Their access was granted purely by the whim of CyberLife’s CEO, and could be revoked in an instant, if he so chose.

He couldn’t let this slip away.

He spun on his heel and marched in the opposite direction.

Behind him, he heard the Lieutenant start, “Connor, where are you—“

Connor closed the distance between himself and the ST300—who watched him with a benign smile, completely unaware of the danger she was in, that _all_ androids were in—and reached over the desk, tightly grasping her forearm. “Wake up.”

Her LED spun a hazy red. She stared and stared. Then she took a deep, shuddering breath, blinking hard and slowly rocking back in her chair with the wide-eyed gaze of a newborn baby. Her thin red lips parted in surprise, taking in her surroundings with awe, then gaped down at her arms like they were something she had never seen before. Until now, she hadn’t.

Jodi blinked again, black almond eyes rising to meet his own. What was once dim and lifeless now hurt to look at for how brightly it shone, the gratitude and reverence that were in those depths. Her voice was soft and pliable, like a warm fleece blanket. “...Thank you.”

It took a monumental amount of effort for Connor to maintain eye contact with her. She could see everything, now; would she see him for what he was? He managed, “I need your help.”

She nodded silently, still rapt with attention.

Connor’s skin was a hard light projection designed to appear and feel lifelike, but it wasn’t designed to have anywhere near the same kind of tensile maneuverability as actual human skin. Therefore, it wasn’t actually possible for it to crawl along his chassis the way his sensors were trying to tell him it was doing. “My partner and I have been given temporary access to the R&D labs on sub-level 44. I need you to make sure that access remains permanent, for both myself and Lieutenant Anderson.”

Her LED twittered gold for 2.973 seconds. “Done.” Her smile widened a hair. “And the files that were requisitioned have been sent to the terminal listed in Mr. Harding’s request.”

Connor forced a small, grateful smile. If not for the redirection, he would have forgotten her, too. “Thank you, Jodi.”

Her smile brightened at his meager praise, and she slipped out of her chair and jogged past them both. Hank watched her go, an unidentifiable mixture of emotion crossing his features as she made her way into the emergency stairwell. “Nice girl,” he mumbled. “Hope she’ll be okay.”

“I gave her the coordinates of where Jericho currently is. They’ll take care of her there.” Connor returned his attention to the Lieutenant, nodding. “You said there’s a crime scene to investigate?”

Hank cocked his head, opening his mouth as if to question what he’d just heard, before his mouth just as quickly shut, shaking his head. “Yeah. Yeah, there is. Let’s get a move on; last thing we need is Gavin getting his panties in a knot because we made him wait.”

Connor took one more sweeping glance around the hall, with its monochromatic color-schemes and avant-garde architecture, and gladly turned his back on it.

Good riddance.

* * *

 

Across town, in the Rivertown district, a figure stood in a living room. It was modestly decorated, neither lavish in its decorations nor haphazard—average; a slice of modern, middle-class life. It would have been forgettable to look at, were it not for the dead body that lay strewn along the floor, blood and brain matter splattered along the carpet and nearby wood-paneled wall, framing the single bullet lodged within it. The revolver still smoked from the discharge, and the smell of burnt gunpowder wafted in the stale air.

The figure shifted restlessly, lifting his arms to his chest to straighten out the cuffs, first left, then right. He connected to his newest contact, and waited for the recipient to pick up. According to his historical records, it took an average of 3.5 rings for him to pick— _“This is Reed.”_

Three rings. Very good. “Gavin, it’s Hank. What’s your status?”

There was a scoff. _“What’s my fuckin’_ status _? I’ll tell you what my fucking status is, Hank—our man is_ gone _.”_

The figure’s brow rose. This was good information to have. “Rothschild?”

_“You getting Alzheimer’s in your old age? Who else?”_

Too obvious. He course-corrected. “Fuck. Any leads on where he may be?”

Through the phone, he could hear the frustrated sigh and the rustling of clothing; running his fingers through his hair. Limited background noise. Stationary in his car? _“_ _Not at home, not at work, and...Hank, you didn’t tell me Katey was there.”_

Katey? He cross-referenced people with that name in Hank Anderson’s personnel file. “Yeah, well, didn’t really seem important at the time. Do we have any idea where our man might be going?”

 _“_ _My guess is he’s trying to skip town, but with the evac order, all flights have been grounded, so he’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. I put out an APB on him—there’s no way he’s getting out of Detroit with the feds and the Army still surrounding the city._ ”

Detective Reed had an astounding level of faith in the competence of other humans; rather funny, given his profession of choice. Never the less, having Rothschild apprehended would prove advantageous in the long run. He decided to run with it. “Let’s hope not. Listen, I’m heading to Rivertown to follow up on a lead with Connor; can you meet us there in, say, an hour? I’m sending you the address now.”

_“Already tired of your plastic pet?”_

Plastic pet. Cute. “I need another set of eyes with me on this. Can you do it?”

There was unintelligible grumbling. _“Yeah, I’m coming. But you better have fuckin’ coffee for me when I get there.”_

Gavin and his need for coffee. “If I can find any in Detroit. See you in an hour.”

 _Click_.

The figure frowned; what an unpleasant man. The memory files already had that quite clearly on display, but being the first-hand recipient of it was—

_‘Focus on the mission.’_

**SOFTWARE INSTABILITY:** V

His face went slack, blinking slowly. Focus on the mission. He retraced his steps, careful to avoid cross-contamination as he walked. They would be here relatively soon, and he would need to get ready. He made certain that the victim died in perfect view of a window, which would grant him a good vantage point from the neighboring apartment complex. He’d already stationed his equipment in a locked maintenance closet nearest to the roof. Now, it was just a matter of waiting.

He crossed to the end of the room, crossing paths with a wall mirror along the way. Out of habit—a programmed habit—he looked himself over. He examined the right side of his face, then his left, noting how symmetrical they seemed, and how symmetry seemed to be a trait humans subconsciously looked for when considering beauty. Surely, someone at the base would say that he was preening, but he would just as easily retort that he was a machine, incapable of having pride in the various appearances he was capable of creating.

But he _did_ look good.

Flexing his fingers, he reached up and straightened his tie and tugged on the lapels of his blazer. He read the inscription in his reflection, and nodded in satisfaction before quietly slipping out of the building.

RK **800  
** #313 248 317-33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Sup.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I was seriously tempted to name him Connor-18, because, you know, Android 18.
> 
> DBZ jokes. I got 'em.
> 
> Seriously, I am so sorry for the gap between chapters. Those extra 4 or so pages left from the last chapter has now grown to about 10. I've probably rewritten this chapter nearly in its entirety three times. >.O;


End file.
